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From a photograph by Carpenter, Los Angeles 




you fool, 
there’s no 
mine on 

Lake systematically attacks the other man’s happiness 

Slowly the poison of suspicion crept Into Whittier’s mind 




Founded on OWEN DAVIS’ 

Celebrated Stage Success 

In this production, Miss Fenwick has been given such a 
splendid opportunity to display those powers which have 
made her one of the greatest stage stars in America. Her 
work in “THE WOMAN NEXT DOOR” is said to be one 
of the rarest and most beautiful examples of character 
portrayal in the annals of film plays. 

The story is familiar to theater-goers, having been one 
of the big Broadway successes of the past few years. 
Jenny Gay, an actress, is the object of the mad infatuation 
of Jack Lake, a promoter of worthless mines. This char- 
acter becomes her nemesis and eventually by poisoning 
the mind of her husband causes a divorce and drives her 
to solitude in a New England village. Tom Grayson, 
superintendent of a railroad construction gang in Mexico, 
meets Lake and through a quarrel with some Greasers in 
which Lake takes his part, becomes his debtor. When 
Tom returns home Lake follows him and promptly recog- 
nizes in the little Woman Next Door the object of his 
affection. Tom and Jenny fall in love and Lake immediately 
exposes Jenny as the actress whose divorce suit had been 
one of the newspaper sensations of the year. From this 
situation many tense and dramatic moments are evolved. 

Lawson Butt as 
Jack Lake 

Irene Fenwick as 
Jenny Gay 

A mind poisoned 
against Itself 
brings about the 
Inevitable result — 
the divorce court 
enters Into the 
triangle, but out of 
the maelstrom 
arises a greater and 
better love 







W HEN Haverly landed the plum the only 
man on the staff who was surprised was 
Haverly himself. Two months previously 
old Bevan who had been editor of the 
Sentinel for more than a quarter of a century had 
been found dead in his chair. Like all the rest., 
Haverly had realized that some one must take his 
place. That he himself would he the man never 
occurred to him. 

At the directors meeting, however, the choice had 
been practically unanimous. Only one man had de- 
murred and his doubts were based wholly upon 
Daverly’s age, or rather upon his youth. He was 
just thirty. Bevan had been sixty-five when he died. 
Was there not danger in choosing a man so young? 
His objections were overruled, however; in fact, 
he was glad to have them overruled. He liked 
Haverly. He acknowledged that he was an ideal 
newspaper man. He had a brilliant record for 
“scoops.” So the secretary was instructed to inform 
Haverly of his election. 

Boys flying kites haul in their white- 
winged birds. 

You can’t do that way when you’re 
flying words. 

Thoughts unexpressed will sometimes 
fall back dead, 

But God Himself can’t kill them when 
they’re said. 

— Carleton 

That night as the latter sat at his desk 
hastily throwing together a story of the aviation 
races to fill half a column needed to make up 
the page which must go immediately to press, 
the secretary’s letter was handed him. He laid 
it down unopened and went on writing. As 
soon as his copy had been turned in he picked 
it up and opened it. 

For a moment he sat and simply stared at it. 
Why on earth had they chosen him? There 
was Thornton, the managing editor, as capable 
a man as ever lived, and Caxton, the city 
editor, each older both in years and length of 
service than himself. And there was Kennedy 
and Haines and Mathews. He paused a moment 
and his teeth came together like a steel trap. 
He despised Mathews. And he could not tell 
why, unless — unless it was because of 

'T'HE stern lines of his face relaxed and the 
-l brilliant eyes grew dreamy over the vision 
which passed before them. Helen Holden was 
the Sentinel’s star reporter. And she was 
slender and graceful and exquisitely feminine. 
There was nothing about her of the striding, 
masculine type affected by so many newspaper 
women. Her eyes were dark, appealing, and 
full of meaning. Instinctively you liked the 
girl behind them. There was in their expres- 
sion something which suggested some far-off 
oriental ancestry. Yet they were so openly, so 
frankly honest, and as Thornton had one day 
put it, “Lord! How they keep you guessing!” 
The whole force regarded her as the mascot. 
Where the others on the staff failed she suc- 
ceeded every time and there was not a man 
among them but was willing to acknowledge 
that her success was due in no small measure 
to her own unconscious charm. Outside the 
office Haverly knew absolutely nothing of her 
life. But he had occasionally looked up from 
his work to see Mathews talking to her in a 
way which evidently annoyed her and which made 
his blood boil. He longed to punch his head. 

Haverly himself had had little time for the girls. 
Not that he did not care for their society. He did. 
As for children, he adored them. He couldn’t get 
past a bunch of ragged “newsies” on the corner 
without stopping to talk to them to save his life, 
and many a maid and nurse girl had looked admir- 
ingly after the tall figure of a young man who had 
stopped to play a moment with their little charges 
in the park. But if, like most men, he cherished 
a secret longing for a home, wife and children of 
his own he kept it strictly to himself and all the 
devotion of a finely-attuned affectionate soul which 
under other circumstances might have found its out- 
let through other channels he lavished upon the 
little mother who had borne him — who had toiled 
and suffered and sacrificed that he might have his 
chance to “make good” in life 

He put the letter in his pocket, got his hat and 
coat, closed his desk and turned to go. As he passed 

through the outer office the other members of the 
staff were just preparing to leave also. He spoke 
to Thornton who came over to him. It was with 
hesitation that Haverly took the letter from his 
pocket again and handed it to him, for a thought 
so weighty had suddenly come to him that something 
came up in his throat and almost choked him. This 
new arrangement might alter the hitherto close and 
highly valued friendship of his comrades. But this 
was a doubt soon to be dispelled. Thornton let out 
a whoop which brought the whole force around him 
in a moment. What “good fellows” they were! 
They shook his hand heartily, slapped his broad 
shoulders and wondered if they would ever dare 
call him Jack again! They were glad, unfeignedly 
glad, of his success. The fact that he had been pro- 
moted over all their heads mattered not a whit. 
They congratulated him sincerely — all except 
Mathews. . 

“Fellows,” he stumbled, “I don’t know how it 



“We do!” they exclaimed in excited chorus. 
"We knew it! You’re too modest, old man. Any- 
way, Jack, you can count on us!” 

Haverly’s fine face grew grave. Then he spoke 
soberly and with deep feeling. 

“That’s just what I want to do, fellows — count on 
you! Without your help, your sympathy and sup- 
port, I’ll — I’ll fail. With them — well, I’ll keep the 
old paper up to the top notch where she’s always 
been or die trying!” 

Again they gathered around him, voicing their 
loyalty and interest — all but Mathews. At the close 
of Haverly’s words he had slipped away quietly and 
the expression on his face was not good to see. 
The rest would have lingered longer, doubtless, but 
for the warning cry of the elevator man. 

“Last trip.” 

In a bunch they made a dash for the car and a 
moment later it deposited them on the ground floor. 

T)Y THE time Haverly reached home that night 
-U he had made some very definite plans and some 
not quite so definite. No more third-story apartments 
with little light, poor air, long flights of stairs and 
noisy neighbors! The mother should have a pretty 
cottage at the edge of town, not too far from the 
office, with sunshine on all four sides of it, with 
grass and trees and a flower garden and the other 
things that women love when the freshness of their 
youth has departed. Later, perhaps, a little electric, 
which she could run herself, and then, after a while, 

perhaps, when things got easier . Again his 

heart warmed as the vision of a slender girl with 
dark, wonderful eyes came vividly to his mind. 

Not until he reached home did he realize how late 
it was. As he dropped off of the car at the corner 
he heard the chimes on St. James ring one o’clock. 
He slipped noiselessly into the house, and as he 
passed the dining-room, saw one more evidence of 
his mother’s loving thought. On the table he found 
a plate of sandwiches, the kind he liked best, some 
cake, fruit, and a thermos bottle of piping hot coffee. 
He had eaten nothing since shortly after noon — a 
fact he had quite forgotten but which lent an extra 
savor to the night lunch. When he had finished he 
rose and stood for a moment looking thoughtfully 
at the door of his mother’s room. Then he opened 
it softly and went in. 

It was a small room, the kind in which the 
furniture, however diminutive, always looks too 
large. The bed stood in one corner and a flood 
of moonlight came through the open window bring- 
ing into bold relief the quiet figure and placid face 
of the sleeper. He stood for a moment looking 
down at her tenderly. Then his presence seemed to 
rouse her. She sat up quickly as if in fear. 

“Jack!” she cried. Then immediately, “ is 

anything the matter, dear?” 

He sat down on the edge of the bed and gathered 
her into his arms. 

“Not a thing, mother mine. I just wanted to talk 
and couldn’t wait till morning. In fact, I’ve had 
some dandy good luck, dearest. Your little big boy 
is so happy he doesn’t know whether he’s thirty or 

He settled her back on the pillows, then told 
her the good news, not forgetting to include the 
satisfaction which his selection had given the men 
with whom he worked. For a while he rattled on 
about his plans and his hopes. But he broke off 
suddenly when he observed that the figure beside 
him was shaken with sobs. 

He looked at her helplessly and in amazement. 
In all his life he could not remember ever having 
seen his mother cry. 

“Don’t, dearest!” he begged. “Why — what are 
you crying about?” 

“Oh, boy,” she said, “ if only you could know 

how I’ve hoped and planned and dreamed and 
prayed that a chance like this might come to you! 
It seems too good to be true.” 

“Mother mine,” he answered softly, “It was just 
because I do know that I couldn’t wait till morning 
to tell you. Don’t cry any more. Please don’t. 
It — it hurts! And I guess it wouldn’t be a bad idea, 
either, if both of us got a little sleep sometime 
before daylight. What do you think?” 

He kissed her softly and she smiled at him 
through her tears. But she still looked thoughtful. 
So he waited. 

“Well?” he questioned whimsically. “Anything 
more coming? If so, let’s have it and get it out of 
our systems.” 

He had risen and stood looking down at her over 
the foot of the bed. For a moment she was silent, 
seemingly buried in thought. He suddenly realized 
what she was thinking about and his face grew hot. 

This splendid son whom she loved had one grave 
fault — a passionate temper which he had never quite 
learned to control. As a child he had sometimes 
given way to fits of rage which made his elders 
shake their heads apprehensively. True, since he 
had become a man he had acquired a marvelous 
degree of self-control. Rarely now did he give way 
to things which vexed him. But the volcano still 
smouldered fiercely underneath and once stirred to 
the depths his wrath was terrible to encounter. She 
knew that the new position he was about to assume 
would bring its own trials, its own disappointments, 
and the mother love within her prompted her to 
warn him again on this night. She alone knew how 
bitter had always been his remorse, how deep his 
chagrin, how sincere his apologies as soon as the 
storm had passed. But during all the years of her 
life she had nursed a great fear that he would 
some day say just one word too much. To spare 
him this she would have given her life. Once when 
he had been a boy in high school she came across 
some lines in a poem and had given them to him 
to commit to memory. When she spoke again it was 
to remind him of it. 

“Do you remember?” she asked. 

“Very well, mother mine.” 

“Say them again, dear — will you?” 

Obediently as a child he began: 

“Boys flying kites haul in their white- 
winged birds. 

You can’t do that way when you’re flying 

Thoughts unexpressed will sometimes fall 
back dead, 

But God Himself can-’t kill them when 
they're said!" 

“ When they're said!" she repeated after him. 
“Oh, Jack,” she begged, “don’t say things you will 
be sorry for. It’s been a long time now since 
I’ve seen you angry, but I’m always — afraid — 
dear ! All men have temper, of course. They 
wouldn’t amount to shucks if they didn’t. But tem- 
per is a thing to keep, not to lose. People find it 
easy to forgive a man for what he does in the heat 
of anger. But no man ever forgets what he says. 
It’s the — the- — spoken word that slays, dear. It can 
never be unsaid.” 

He came back to her side and dropped onto his 
knees. He knew her words were true. A thousand 
times he had promised her to keep a curb on his 
tongue. A thousand times, it now seemed to him, 
he had broken his word. He would not promise 
again, but he firmly resolved that he would become 
master of himself. He did not speak, but he felt 
a hand laid caressingly on his dark hair and in a 
moment the mother said simply, “My son will not 
forget. Goodnight, dear.” 


F OR the next two years things ran along at the 
office of the Sentinel with amazing smoothness. 
Everybody fell to with a will to keep the paper up 
to the standard. Even Mathews, whom Haverly 
disliked and distrusted, seemed to be loyal to the 
common interest. His work was good. He was 
always prompt and, unless he could find something 
definite on which to base his personal feelings, 
Haverly resolved to play fair and be absolutely just 
to him. It was only when he saw him talking to 
Helen that he. wished he might find something sub- 
stantial which would furnish him with an excuse 
to get rid of him. 

As for Helen — well, Jack acknowledged to himself 
that she gave him more uncomfortable moments 
than all the rest of the office force put together. 
When, almost noiselessly, she approached his desk 
and modestly deposited thereon a cracking good 
story, slipping away as quickly as she had come, 
Haverly never failed to find something radically 
wrong with his vital organs for the next half hour. 
Lungs, heart or stomach — he couldn’t exactly locate 
the disturbance. He only knew that he breathed 
altogether too rapidly, that, as he expressed it, his 
“pump” worked too fast, and that, on top of both 
of these things, he felt confoundedly “queer.” If he 
made some excuse to detain her, which not infre- 
quently happened, the only difference lay in the 
severity of the attack and the length of time it took 
him to get back into condition again. During these 
brief intervals she had astonished him with her 
breadth of vision, her clear analysis, her knowledge 
of literature, art, music, and the other things which 
go to make life worth while. One morning when he 
had found his equilibrium almost completely disar- 
ranged because of a direct glance from those won- 
drous eyes, he said to her, “I envy you, Miss Holden. 

I think I never saw you unless you were smiling. 
Don’t you ever get bothered about things?” 

“Oh, often. But — ‘keep near thee, O Woman, that 
which weds thee to laughter, not to tears’ ” she quoted, 
and before he knew it she was gone. 

How was the editor of the Sentinel to know that 
this quiet young woman who was playing so large a 
part in his daily life was indeed much more unusual 
than even he imagined her? That she came from a 
long line of cultured, literary and artistic ancestry? 
That her unusual gifts had been showered upon her 
at birth, nursed and cultivated during her child- 
hood? That she was a living exemplification of that 
almost indefinable word heredity t To Helen Holden 
the use of a pen came as naturally as does the use 
of a needle to the woman who likes to sew, and 
when, at nineteen, she had been left alone in the 
world, she had turned to it as a means of self-sup- 
port. To the Sentinel she had become invaluable, 
and her work for the paper quite occupied her days. . 
But the nights were all her own, and during the 
long evening hours she lived her real life. 

TTER own father had been a goldsmith — a clever 
-*■ -l craftsman whose artistic designs and perfect 
workmanship were known the world over although 
his name was not. His father, and all who lay behind 
him, had been journalists. All her life Helen had 
cherished a passion for her father’s work. When 
she was a tiny child she would sit for hours on the 
high work-bench watching him bending over sonm 
beautiful thing, utterly oblivious to her presence. 
When she was older he had taught her how to “work” 
the metals, the silver and gold which came out after- 
ward in such lovely patterns. Gradually she became 
almost as expert as himself. At twelve she began to 
express herself in original designs which were a 
delight to the eye. 

When her father died and the little home they 
had shared had to be given up, Helen herself had 
packed away the contents of the little shop. 
Tenderly and with tears she moved about, touching 
softly the things she had learned to love, thinking 
that never again could they be of service to her, 
yet grimly resolved that no one else should have 
them. Then she had gone forth into the work-a-day — * 
world, had found an inexpensive room in a quiet 
neighborhood and taken her few belongings there. 

But when she had been in the house only a few 
days she learned of the large attic above her room. 

The kind-hearted landlady who kept the house 
cheerfully granted her permission to use it and here, 
during her leisure hours, Helen wrought her dreams 
into realities. 

Haverly discovered her talent one day quite by 
accident. She came in to put her story on his 
desk as usual and found him looking discontentedly 
at the sketch of the design to be used for the cover 
of the fiction section of the Sunday paper. The 
subject as a whole was’ all right for the purpose — a 
pleading lover and a hesitant maid. But the face of 
the man was weak. It jarred upon her artistic 
soul. She looked at it a moment and then said: 

“I don’t like that. Do you?” 

“No,” he answered. “But I don’t know just what 
is the matter with it.” 

She flashed one of her level, disconcerting glances 
at him and then replied. 

“I do. The man’s face is weak. I’d have a hard 
time getting up a thrill over a fellow with a 
countenance like that. He ought to look like this.” 

While Haverly was pulling himself together she 
picked up an envelope from the desk and began to 
draw. In a few rapid strokes she sketched a man’s 
face, clear-cut, strong and very good to look at. So 
engrossed was she in the task that she did not see 
Haverly’s eager eyes fixed, not upon the drawing, 
but upon her own lovely face. As he watched he 
saw a mischievous dimple come into her cheek and 
it was followed by more dimples all around her 
mouth. One couldn’t expect a man to talk sense 
under the circumstances. When he recovered suf- 
ficiently to speak it was only to say lamely, 

“Why I didn’t know you could draw!” 

Helen tipped her head to one side and surveyed 
her work. Then she laughingly wrote her initials, 

H. H., down in the corner. Still laughing, she backed 
off to a safe distance and held up the picture for 
his inspection, and when Mr. Jack Haverly, editor 
of the Sentinel removed his eyes from her face to 
the picture, he got the shock of his life. The face 
was his own! 

She tossed the envelope toward him and started 
to run from the room. But — woman proposes and 
man occasionally disposes! The editor had come to. 
Before she got half-way across the room the door 
had been closed with not a little emphasis and a very 


resolute-looking man with a pair of splendid shoul- 
ders was backed up against it. She was caught in 
her own trap. For a moment the two eyed each 
other in silence, several feet of space between them. 
Then the man spoke. 

“Come here, Helen,” he said, “ fight here 

where — you — belong.” 

He held out his arms, but the young woman, 
flushed, panting and defiant, would have none of 

“I w-won’t!” she gasped. “I — I’m n-not coming at 

He waited a moment. 

Then he spoke again 
and in a different tone. 

“Please dear! Come! 

Don’t you know how I 
want you, Helen?” Then, 
as she made no move, 

“You know I could come 
and get you, dear, but 
— I don’t want to. 

Please come — to — me!” 

H E watched her face 
as he spoke and saw 
a change come into it. It 
grew soft and beautiful 
and the look in her eyes 
thrilled him through. 

For those eyes were lit 
Avith love, and there 
was something else in 
them — something he 
could not just under- 
stand. Was she just a 
little bit — afraid? The 
thought stung him. He 
was about to give up his 
purpose and go to her. 

But before the idea had 
time to mature he saw 
her move timidly to- 
ward him and when 
she had traversed half 
the distance he sprang, 
lover-like, to meet her. 

“Oh, Girl! Girl!” he 
half whispered as he 
folded her in his arms 

closely, “ don’t you 

know how I love you? 

Don’t you know!” 

She did not answer 
immediately, but when 
the arms about her 
loosened a bit and he 
looked down he saw 
that her open hands 
were pressed flatly 
against the lapels of his 
coat. She rubbed them 
up and down once or 
twice, then mechanical- 
ly pulled the two sides 
together and fastened 
the top buttons. Then 
she raised a roguish 
little face and said de- 
murely, “No — of course 
not. How did you ex- 
pect me to know it?” 

“Well,” he stam- 
mered, “I thought ” 

She laughed a de- 
licious little laugh. 

“ ’Fraid cat! ” she 
taunted. “Six feet big, 
editor -of a newspaper 
and scared of poor little 
me !” 

“Guilty!” he admit- 
ted manfully, “but, you see ” 

He never could remember afterward just what 
excuse he had intended framing to cover hi’s cow- 
ardice, for before the words came something hap- 
pened. The two slender hands began to creep 
"Kpward. Two soft arms locked tightly behind his 
head and a voice, tender, quivering, vibrant, spoke. 
“Oh, I love you — love you — LOVE you!” 

The tremulous beating of the man’s heart sud- 
denly subsided into its regular throb. The blood 
that had been racing riotously through his veins 
cooled. He was awed, humble. The slender figure 
in his arms was pliant, unresisting, the lips he 
kissed, tremulous and yielding. Hers had been the 
Gift Supreme. The words he whispered against 
her ear, though old as the everlasting hills them- 

selves were just as new as on that primal morn 
when the First Man spoke them and the First 
Woman heard. Haverly made a covenant with him- 
self that she should never know regret, and all that 
was man within him fiercely vowed that nothing 
should ever take from him the beauteous Thing that 
had come into his life. 


During the next few months the days flew by on 
wings. The routine of the office allowed the lovers 

only occasional glimpses of each other during the 
day, for Helen’s work was over before Haverly’s 
began. But at five o’clock each afternoon they had 
dinner together, spending in each other’s presence 
a golden hour hallowed to their dreams for the 
future, filled with confidences intimate and dear, 
often given over to the long silences more eloquent 
than words which fall between hearts that love 
with understanding. 

Toward the end of the year Helen observed that 
Jack was preoccupied — that something was in his 
thoughts which she could not share. A sudden fear 
tugged painfully at her heart. Was he beginning 
to regret? To feel that his love for her, in spite 
of the pleasure that it brought, was becoming a bur- 
den? She put the thought quickly away from her, but 

one evening as they dined together she said with a 
laugh which was not altogether natural, “You’ll be 
so accustomed to seeing my face on the other 
side of the table that it will be no novelty at all!” 

“Ah, but ” he had answered quickly with a 

little catch in his voice, “it will be different after — 
when we’re married. Sweetheart!” 

At his words she had buried the ghost that had 
haunted her. Whatever might be the cause of his pre- 
occupation she herself had naught to do with it. She 
longed for his confidence but did not wish to ask for it. 

Haverly had seen 
some of his dreams 
come true. The cottage 
at the edge of town had 
become a reality. All 
summer the garden had 
bloomed riotously and 
the mother had seemed 
to grow young again. 
He had won the woman 
he loved and they were 
to be married at the 
New Year. Yet that 
night after seeing Helen 
on the car, as Haverly 
turned back to the office 
his heart was heavy. 
There was a traitor 
somewhere in his own 
office. Persistent effort 
on his part for the last 
three months had failed 
to reveal who it was. 
He longed to believe 
that it w'as Mathews. 
But Mathews had given 
him no reason to be- 
lieve it. He had watched 
him closely and had 
found no grounds on 
which to suspect him. 
About three months pre- 
viously an important edi- 
torial which Haverly had 
written had disappeared 
mysteriously from his 
desk. That in itself was 
bad enough. But he had 
quickly re-written it 
and supposed that it 
had just been misplaced. 
When it appeared ver- 
batim in the morning 
edition of the Chronicle. 
the Sentinel's only ri- 
val, on the next day, 
however, the whole 
staff of the latter 
journal had been struck 
dumb. Mathews, along 
with the rest, had ex- 
pressed his indignation. 
A few weeks later the 
thing had happened 
again, and this time it 
was Mathews’ own 
“scoop” on the exist- 
ence of commercialized 
vice in a certain aristo- 
c r a t i c neighborhood 
which disappeared. 
Mathews was loud in 
his denunciation of the 
guilty one, whoever it 
was. He had turned in 
another copy and, as 
before, the article ap- 
peared, word for word, 
in both papers. In the 
face of Mathews’ wrath. 
Jack could not believe 
him guilty. Yesterday, for the third time, the thing 
had occurred again. Haverly and Thornton were 
absolutely nonplussed. 

They held a quiet conference in Jack’s office and 
resolved that they would run the culprit to cover, 
come what would. Every man on the staff was 
warned not to discuss the affair on peril of losing 
his job. But to Helen Jack said no word. Five 
weeks, four weeks, three weeks, two weeks till the 
woman he loved would be his own. Helen's quiet, 
happiness appealed to him as nothing else in the 
world could. She was living with her dreams and 
they were dreams he did not wish to disturb. 

Meanwhile Helen was occupying her evenings de- 
lightfully in making her lover a Christmas present. 
Many weeks ago she had thought of it, and it was 

“So! It was you, was tt?” he said. Then he laughed, — a bitter, mocking laugh with a barb In every tone. “You! The snake in 
the grass that always strikes from behind! A traitor, — a — a thief?” 


to be quite the loveliest, the most perfect thing she 
had ever fashioned. She drew one design after 
another only to discard them all and go to bed dis- 
couraged. But like many of the good things of life 
it came suddenly. One night as she lay in bed think- 
ing of it she suddenly remembered that day in 
Jack’s office when she had drawn his face on the 
envelope. She sprang out of bed, switched on the 
light, slipped into a warm kimono, sat down at the 
table, seized a pencil and pad and began to sketch 
rapidly. A man’s face, strangely familiar, with a 
fine straight mouth, deep set eyes fringed with 
heavy lashes, grew quickly under the light stroke 
of the pencil. There was a world of tenderness in 
it as it looked down on something evidently very 
dear. She held it up for a moment, looked at it, 
sighed with satisfaction and laid it aside. Then, 
taking another pad she began a second sketch. She 
pushed a chair up before the dressing table, took 
the pins out of her hair and shook it loose, tipped 
the mirror back until she was looking almost 
directly upward into it. Then she threw back her 
head and smiled. For a moment she gazed at the 
reflection, then went back to the table and began to 
draw — a radiant, smiling upturned face — her own. 
When it was finished, with the scissors she cut out 
the two faces and fitted them together. She clapped 
her hands softly at the success of her plan and crept 
back into bed. 

F OR the next week she worked feverishly in her 
attic under the eaves. On the day before Christ- 
mas the perfect thing was finished. It was a cigarette 
case of beaten silver with here and there a touch 
of gold. On the lower part the face of a girl 
looked up and smiled. The upper half was wrought 
into the face of a man, and when the lid snapped 
down it was exactly as though he had bent forward 
to kiss the smiling lips. Helen surveyed her work 
with satisfaction. She gave it a final rub with a 
piece of chamois, wrapped it carefully, placed it in 
a small white box, tied it with a Christmas ribbon 
and wrote on the outside Mr. John Haverly. 

On the morning of the day before Christmas Jack 
sat in his office vexed to the very bottom of his 
soul. To use his own expression he was “mad all 
the way down.” No amount of watching on his own 
or Thornton’s part had thrown any light on the 
mysterious thefts, another of which had occurred the 
previous Sunday. Both had observed, however, that 
the material stolen had always been that to be used 
in some special edition of the paper. So they agreed 
that until after the Christmas paper was off the 
press the office should not be left alone — that one 
would secrete himself during the other’s absence 
where he could see, without being seen, any one 
who approached the editor’s desk. 

It was Haverly’s turn to watch on Christmas Eve. 
He notified Helen that he could not go with her 
to dinner as usual, but he would come for her on 
Christmas morning, they would have a long, happy 
day together and then — just one week more! Think- 
ing, however, that Jack would go out alone for some- 
thing to eat at the usual time, Helen resolved to slip 
in to his office during his absence and place the little 
package on his desk. 

According to the plan which he had arranged 
with Thornton when five o’clock came Haverly 
walked through the outer office where the members 
of the staff were at work, his hat in his hand and 
his coat over his arm. He spoke to Kennedy, and to 
Mathews, busy at their desks. Once outside, how- 
ever, instead of taking the elevator he stepped back 
into his own office through another door and slipped 
into the file room, relieving Thornton who had been 
on guard. Thornton then turned the gas low in 
the office and went out by the same door through 
which Jack had entered. 

Haverly dropped into a chair and waited. Every 
nerve in his body was strung taut. He felt that at 
a touch they would snap. He had an almost over- 
whelming feeling that something was about to hap- 
pen, and whatever it was he wished it were over 
with. For nearly an hour he sat there. One after 
another the men in the next room went to dinner and 
he was left alone. Presently a slight sound caused 
him to sit up straight in his chair. Some one had 
come into the room. 

He peered through the crack of the door and in 
the dim light saw the figure of a woman move 
cautiously toward the desk. The figure was 
familiar. His heart began to pound furiously. 
Every drop of blood in his body seemed to rush to 
his head. It was Helen! 

She tiptoed noiselessly to the desk, opened the 
little silver mesh bag she carried in her hand and 
was just taking the package containing her gift 
from it when her eyes fell upon something on the 

desk which attracted her attention. Laying down 
the bag she picked it up and tried to see it better. 
It was the design in color for the front page of the 
Christmas paper. How wondrously beautiful it 
was! White-winged angels, in diaphanous floating 
garments, flocking about the belfry of a cathedral, 
tipping with their bare feet the pondrous bells to 
make them ring out Peace on Earth, Good Will to 
Men! Far below, in the grey dawn, were to be 
seen the roofs and spires of the sleeping city. She 
gazed at it spellbound — this woman who so loved 
beauty in its every form of expression. But to the 
man who watched, the dim light did not reveal the 
glow of the dark eyes, the wonderfully softened face, 
the parted, mobile lips. 

The gas that burned so dimly was far above her 
reach, but the longing to see the picture better was 
great. So she stepped toward the door through 
which she had come and was about to open it when 
the movement of a chair in the file room startled 
her. She gave a frightened little gasp as the man 
sprang toward her! 

From his point of observation Haverly had 
watched her movements with a fascination to be 
compared only with that by which the cobra draws 
the fluttering bird. Helen! His girl! The dainty, 
affectionate, spiritual-looking, exquisite little crea- 
ture who had given him her love in utter abandon- 
ment — in whom he had had such faith! The whole 
universe seemed toppling about his ears. His 
pulses throbbed till he felt that he was going mad. 
Vainly he wrestled to keep a hold on himself, little 
lights like tiny points of flame danced before his 
eyes. Not until he had seen her move toward the 
door with the picture in her hand had he realized 
the necessity of doing something. 

The flaming wrath within him suddenly gave way 
to a cool, calculating anger. He felt scornful, con- 
temptuous, dangerous. His heart stopped pound- 
ing. He was no longer conscious of a desire to 
smash things — only of an inclination to taunt, to 
insult, to condemn. Helen already stood with her 
hand on the door knob when she became aware of 
his presence. She gave ^ low cry as she felt her 
wrist seized as in a vise and heard the voice, which 
never before had spoken other than kindly, utter- 
ing words which cut like the lash of a whip. 

“Not this time !” he said mockingly. 

H E TOOK the picture from her hands and tossed 
it back onto the desk. Then he thrust his 
hands into his pockets and stood regarding her con- 

“So! It was you, was it?” he said. Then he 
laughed — a bitter, mocking, scornful laugh with a 
barb in every tone. “You! The snake in the grass 
that always strikes from behind! A traitor — a — a 
thief! Well, everything comes to him who waits. 

It has taken me a year to find you out. Here ” 

He turned up the light, dropped into the chair 
before the desk and wrote her a checque. 

“Here,” he continued, “I guess this is coming to 
you for your Christmas story. Take it, and then go 
over to the Chronicle where you belong. They’ll 
appreciate your talents there, and — don’t — come — 

Utterly bewildered, unable to sense his meaning, 
she took the checque mechanically, looked at it 
blankly for a moment. Then she tore it into riddles 
and flung them into his face. Darting to the desk 
she picked up the little silver bag and fled the 

As she crossed the outer office she ran plump into 
Thornton returning from dinner. Shocked and 
mystified as well at the white, anguished face he 
made an effort to detain her. But she stared at him 
as though she had never seen him before and sped 
on. Suddenly the thing revealed itself to him. He 
hurried to Haverly’s office. 

“Jack!” he gasped, “it was — no — it couldn’t be 

Haverly did not answer. With head on arms on 
the desk he sat motionless, as one dead. . Thornton 
shook him. 

“Get up, Jack! Quick !” Then after a pause, “I don’t 
believe it,” he cried hotly. “I tell you / don't believe 
it! My God, man! What have you done? Didn’t 
you see her face? There must be some mistake!” 
Haverly groaned! The storm had spent itself. 
Once again the smouldering volcano within him 
had burst into flame and this time it had buried 
beneath its hot lava the woman he loved. Now the 
seething fire had died out. He shivered and felt 
cold. Too late he realized that he had condemned 
her unheard, and the memory of that agonized, 
terror-stricken face would haunt him to his dying 
day. No more on earth, he thought, could that 

beauteous, living, palpitating Thing which he had 
crushed be restored to him. Even though the ashes 
underneath which it had been buried could be 
cleared away, he should find only the empty shell 
from which the soul had fled! The spoken word. 

What would he not give if he could only recall it. 

The memory of his mother's warning flashed across 
him like a great sea wave: 

“Thoughts unexpressed will sometimes fall back 

But God himself can’t kill them when they're 

There must be some mistake! Thornton’s words 
beat against his ear like the thunder of a thousand 
drums. There must be some mistake! 

When Helen left the building she plunged blindly 
into the crowd of belated Christmas shoppers which 
thronged the streets. The day had been balmy and 
beautiful, far more like April than December. But 
within the hour the mercury had taken a downward 
tumble and a piercingly cold wind was beginning 
to whistle about the tall buildings. Those fortunate 
enough to possess furs and limousines crept into 
them. The rest began scurrying to whatsoever 
shelter the gods afforded them. Helen was not 
dressed for bitter weather. The jaunty jacket of 
her tailored suit was not fashioned for nights such 
as this promised to be. But she was unconscious 
of the cold. With that indefinable desire just to 
"get away” she struck out blindly through the crowd, 
walking on and on and on. Both mind and body were 

benumbed. Somewhere just outside her mental grasp — - 

was the consciousness of something terrible that had 
happened. What it was she could not have told. 

On and on she went, till at last the glimmering 
lights of the park came into view. She began to 
realize that she was walking unsteadily. Her feet 
no longer responded to her desire to keep on going. 

She dragged herself to a bench by the drive and sat 
down on it. There was not a soul in sight. 
Evidently the park was not popular on Christmas 
Eve. She began to grow drowsy. And how delight- 
fully warm it was getting! The cold wind which 
but a moment ago had cut her through had melted 
to summer zephyrs. She would go to sleep and 
forget! - 

A moment later a big black machine shot into 
the lower end of the park. It came swiftly up the 
drive. It had a single occupant, a man who, like 
every one else who has a home, was hurrying to it 
on Christmas Eve. As the car shot past the bench, 
however, the chauffeur stopped suddenly. 

“What’s the trouble, Duffy?” asked the man inside. 

“My God, sir! She’ll freeze to death!” he replied. 

“Freeze? Who? What are you talking about any- 

“A woman on the bench we just passed, sir.” 

“A woman? Back up. Quick!” 

The man obeyed and when the bench was 
reached both men sprang out. Vainly they tried 
to rouse the drooping figure. True, she opened her 
eyes and stared blankly at them, but that was all, 
and neither of them noticed the silver bag which 
had slipped from her hand and fallen at her feet. 

“Into the car, quick, Duffy!” 

TT WAS not the man but the physician who spoke. 

A It needed no second glance for him to realize that 
there was not a moment to lose, also that it was a 
case for the hospital and not the police station. 

“To St. Luke’s — as fast as you can!" 

Thp man obeyed. When the hospital was reached 
and the white-uniformed internes had skillfully 
transferred the unconscious girl from the machine 
to the wheeled cart the doctor turned to the driver 
and said: 

“You can take the car home, Duffy. And tell 
Mary and the kiddies they’ll have to do without 
Daddy tonight.” 

At dawn, just as the chimes began ringing out 
the Christmas message, the doctor stood looking 
down into the face of a fever-tossed, wild-eyed, 
suffering girl. Who she was, or where she came 
from, he had no idea. He had picked her up off 
the street, as it were. But of one thing he was 
certain. She was no ordinary young woman. He 
noted the delicate, cameo-like face, the artistic-look*—' 
ing, slender hands and blue veined wrists. She 
was well worth saving. But as he looked at her 
the doctor realized that to do so would mean the fight 
of his life. Twenty-four hours later he realized it 
more than ever. That she had had some terrible 
shock the nature of which was unknown to him 
was evident, but next day an exclamation from him 
caused the white-capped nurse to look at him in- 

“Pneumonia, also,” he said. 




N EVER before had a man so devoutly thanked 
God for occupation as did Haverly that night. 
The Christinas paper had to be gotten out no matter 
what else happened. The office rang with cries for 
copy. The presses were running furiously. That 
Helen had done other than go home after she left 
him did not occur to Jack. Well, tomorrow he 
would try to see her, humbly to ask for forgiveness, 
and if she saw fit to withhold it (which he thought 
altogether likely), he would take his punishment 
like a soldier. It was no more than he deserved. 
But during the short time which had elapsed since 
she left him Haverly had become conscious of one 
weighty truth. Love is Love — no more, no less, 
and if the woman he loved had stolen the whole 
office equipment from the printing-press down to 
the ink bottle, he would love her just the same. 
* Christmas morning dawned clear and cold. Jack 
assumed a cheerfulness which he was far from feel- 
ing. But the mother was not to be deceived. She 

looked at him with eyes of understanding. Not for 
nothing had she watched over him for more than 
thirty years. His spirits were altogether too high 
to be natural. She was quick to detect the forced 
note in his laugh. When in the middle of the morn- 
ing he said he was going out for a walk she looked 
after him and sighed. It was not difficult to sur- 
mise what was the matter. 

As he walked down the street Jack’s thoughts 
went back to the evening before. He would do what 
he could to make it right. Helen loved — no, she had 

loved him, and when a woman loves . But, no. 

She couldn't forgive him. No woman could. A man 
had no right to expect it. But he could tell her he 
was sorry and that he loved her and would love 
her always whether she forgave him or not. 

It occurred to Haverly as he set forth on his way 
that he did not know Helen’s address. He had seen 
her daily at the office and the lateness of the hour 
when his own duties were finished had precluded 
the possibility of much visiting. He went to the 
Sentinel building to look at the address book and 

when he reached the floor on which was his own 
office he heard the telephone ringing on his desk. 
He took down the receiver and said: 

“The Sentinel office. Mr. Haverly speaking.” 

His face went white at what came over the wiie. 
It was the desk sergeant of the Burton Park police 
station who spoke. 

“Haverly, you say? Well, I guess you’re just the 
man I am hunting for. Do you know Miss Helen 
Holden ?” 

“Yes. Yes. What about her?” 

“Well, last night about nine o’clock, sir, one of 
my men saw a woman sit down on a bench in the 
park. It was so cold that he knew something was 
wrong and started to her. Before he could reach 
her a big limousine drew up, took the woman 
in and drove off. It was too dark for him to see 
the man or get the number of his car, but when he 
reached the bench he found a small silver bag lying 
on the ground. It has Miss Holden’s cards in it 
and a small package addressed to you, sir.” 

( Continued on Page 23) 

A Holiday With Kerrigan 


The morning sun has topped the hills, 
And all the world’s a care again, 
Once more we hear the mountain rills, 
Oh, wake up! Sahib Kerrigan! 


The morning mail is good to read, 

So filled with cheer and breathing bliss. 
Belles Lettres of Belles’ Letters, plead. 

And make the morning air a kiss! 


Abaft the vale a grizzly stalks, 

The rifle’s poised, the aim is true, 
And never more that bruin walks 
When Warren K. is there to view. 


The hunter seeks the welcome camp, 

The woodfire’s glow is warming cheer. 
And weary limbs and appetite 

Proclaim the noonday meal is near. 


The cheering sun, the redwood’s bough, 

A magazine, a nod, a yawn, 

And then sweet slumber soothes his brow — 
And rest creeps into brain and brawn. 


The waning day, the sinking sun, 
And then he tries pot-luck again. 
How time has sped since day begun, 
Oh, happy Sahib Kerrigan! 







T HE Emperor Decius arose from the royal booth 
far above the arena’s pit, and gazed in wonder 
at the white-robed figure of the Christian girl, 
who walked unharmed among the famished 
lions, and who raised her blue eyes to heaven and 
smiled. The jungle beasts had refused to harm her. 
The spectators ceased their babble; the bloodlust 
was chilling in their hearts, and they were afraid 
of the Christian girl’s God. 

* * * * 

Nearly seventeen hundred years sped by. A fair- 
haired girl, with eyes as blue as the azure dome 
above, jumped nimbly from the back of her pony, 
on a Montana ranch, and reveled in the flowers that 
carpeted the valley. Suddenly the pony snorted in 
fear, wheeled on his rear hoofs, and darted to cover. 
The girl looked up wonderingly, and sat petrified 
as a huge red bull, pawing dust and bellowing malig- 
nantly, darted toward her. The girl smiled, and the 
beast paused. Then she held out a hand in wel- 
come, and the animal’s eyes opened wider. What 
manner of child was this that had not heard of his 
temper? The beast sniffed curiously, bent his wide 
nostrils close to the beautiful creature, and then, 
the fire deadened to ash in his heart, turned and 
sauntered slowly away. 

Was the girl in the Roman arena the same lassie 
that conquered the enraged animal centuries later? 
Do such things happen in the cycle of the centuries? 
If they do not, then whence came the magic that 
Kathlyn Williams — Kathlyn Unafraid — exercises 
over the creatures of the forest? 

“When fear no longer exists, and there is guile 
in one’s heart toward none of Brahma’s creatures,” 
says the ancient Hindu, “then one may walk through 
the jungles, and every living thing is friendly.” So 
it is with Kathlyn Unafraid, who speaks to the in- 
trepid jungle cats, and stills their fears, and causes 
them to whine a welcome, and lie down at her feet. 
No lash, no peevish scoldings, no censure is her 
weapon — but a something that can not be seen or 
analyzed or properly described. 

Once, when Toddles, the Selig elephant, had suf- 
fered the loss of his tusks, Kathlyn strolled danger- 
ously near, and the muscular proboscis encircled 
her slender waist, and the little actress was lifted 
high above the enraged brute’s head. But she spoke 
softly and reassuringly, and the evil went out of 
Toddle’s heart, and he set her down on the ground. • 
Why did his infuriated resolve to be done with her 
leave him, and prevent his carrying out his foul 
purpose? Toddles didn’t know. If he could know, 
then all he realized Was that the white heat of anger 
died within him, and from him sped the longing to 
destroy one of the members of the pigmy race of 
tormentors that held 

on the part of the animals. 
Once, to illustrate, we 
wished to have a leopard 
leap — presumably upon me. 
In order to make the illu- 
sion acceptable, the leop- 
ard must leap in reality. 
One of the men prepared 
a bait — a newly beheaded 
chicken, still warm and 
lively in its last reflex ac- 
tions. I held it in my 
hands, and as the leopard 
sprung, I let go the bait, 
but all too soon. The 
beast landed on my shoul- 
ders, and his claws — accus- 
tomed to dig into the tree- 
limbs of his natal forest — 
pierced my soft flesh. 

o : 

iNE of the property 
men grasped a fresh’ 
bait, and the leopard con- 
tinued his spring. It was 
but a momentary pause, 
but my scalp was lacer- 
ated, and for days I was 
out of the films. But I 
do not blame the beast; 
it was my own fault in 
incorrectly timing his 
spring. He had no quarrel 
with me, but pursued what 
his appetite told him was a rare feast.” 

Elephants present the most ponderous dangers, 
for in even their playful moods they are never 
dainty or considerate. Folk who have lived in the wilds 
tell strange stories of the pranks of the pachyderms. 
Once, in a little South African Village, there was 
an early evening raid of young bull elephants, 
that had come to the village rim quietly in prepara- 
tion of their devilish jaunt. Then, at the command 
of their leader, they descended on the town, the 
houses of which were constructed on stilts. With 
rampant trumpetings, they would “warp” into the 
buildings or against the props, and amid the screams 
of the affrightened population, the beasts made a 
safe “get-away,” having had their questionable sport. 

Once, when Miss Williams and Tom Sanchi were 
in a howdah on a pachyderm’s back, the animal 
took fright, or else was prompted by some rougish 
impulse. He started to run, and although his loping 
was anything but graceful, the speed was consider- 

him captive. 

“Wild beasts are not 
anxious to attack hu- 
man beings," Miss Wil- 
liams says. “But they 
are fearful of the 
strange bipeds that 
have such unfathomable 
ways — such unusual 
trickery. And within 
them rises the cry of 
self-defense, and they 
strike because they fear. 
Often I visit with my 
animal friends. The 
leopards are tractable, 
but the larger cats — 
such as lions and tigers 
— are more wary of hu- 
man purposes. And yet, 
I have had them nestle 
their heads near my 
feet, and fall into a half 
sleep of vast content- 
ment. When injury oc- 
curs, it is unintentional 

Others have copied her work, but never her success. Others take precautions, but 
four-footed, soft-treading denizens of the dark, and acts natural w 

Out at Sells* Western there Is a young woman of 
classic beauty and marvelous charm, and we love 
her because she Is undaunted Kathlyn Unafraid 

able. A gum-tree grove was convenient to his 
aims, and toward it he raced, trumpeting 
loudly, with a half dozen spraw-footed com- 
panions bringing up the rear, all contributing 
to the unearthly concert. Tom Sanchi was 
brushed off by a projecting bough, and Miss 
Williams chanced a slide down the toboggan- 
slope of the elephant’s side. It was a bad fall, with 
one of the oncoming mountains of Asiatic flesh nar- 
rowly missing her — for elephants are not guaranteed 
to be of the non-skid variety. 

There are times, when the sun is dipping behind 
the western hills, that Kathlyn Unafraid wanders 
through the great inclosures of the Selig zoo, where 
all manner of strange beasts are impounded. The 
animals sense her coming, and the sinuous cats pace 
expectantly in their cages, as she passes and speaks 
a word of cheer. They gaze at her questioningly, 
as though moved by wonder at the spell she casts 
upon them. And they know, when they are brought 
into the cast for animal pictures, that there’s a sort 
of undefined honor to do what they should do — 
without harm to the wonderful little lady who 
weaves a spell over them. 

Would you take the same chances? In the security 
of your home, or gazing at the beasts in a park zoo, 
you would perhaps claim lack of fear. But let it be 
understood that you were to enter a cage with a 

tiger — now, honestly. 

Kathlyn understands the 
Ith them 

would you do it? Yet, 
uncounted “animal 
stories” are sent to the 
Selig company, the plots 
of which demand of 
Miss Williams chances 
that no one acquainted 
with wild beasts would 
ever ask her to take. 
The things the animals 
are supposed to do, not 
only credit to them hu- 
man wisdom, but skill 
as well. 

AND the action -ioxJ 
zAMiss Williams, if 
these scenarios were to 
be produced, would de- 
mand her to do the very 
things that she must 
not do — the things that 
would enrage the beasts 
beyond reason. 

All animals are sus- 
ceptible to excitement. 

The great cats are the most irritable of them all. 
Even your faithful, loving house dog will go into a 
frenzy of excitement with a little teasing. You, his 
master or mistress, must draw a line beyond which 
1 his punishment must not go. He will take a whip- 
ping and may be scolded, but try to hurt him unduly, 
and unless he is a spineless thing, he will fight 
back. The preparations of a studio are filled with 
fuss and hustle and excitement, and the beasts feel 
this tenseness and are on the alert. What devilish 
trap are the humans springing for them now? What 
horrible death lurks in the wake of this prepared- 
ness? And while they are in this frame of mind, 
Kathlyn Unafraid enters the scene — and must con- 
quer their natural fears and still their excessive 
perturbation. Strong men would shrink from the 
task, but Miss Williams can look straight into the 
eyes of these animals, and make them feel friendly 
toward her. She quiets their fears; she reassures 
m them, as though she had learned their strange 
language — perhaps a language of gestures and ex- 
pressions rather than of sounds — or maybe a sort 
of wireless system of messages that the beasts feel 
and interpret correctly. 

One might fancy, with all her love for animals, 
that she would possess many of her own. But she 
is without dog or cat or horse, and must make her 
friends in the vast zoological gardens of the Selig 
Western plant. Once she had Boris, an English 
bulldog, scion of a $10,000 sire. But Boris is gone, 
.&fid there are no animal members of the household. 

Kathlyn Williams “set the pace” in animal pic- 
tures. Her “Adventures of Kathlyn” set in motion 
the introduction of jungle and veldt creatures into 
the silent drama. Others have copied her work, 
but never her success. Others take wonderful pre- 
cautions, but Kathlyn understands the four-footed, 
soft-treading denizens of the dark, and acts natural 
when with them. Her animal stories (many of 
which she writes and directs herself) have made 
her famous the world over. Her "Balu, the Leopard 
Foundling,” illustrates one of her innumerable 
strokes of constructive and histrionic genius. But 
she has had many pictures of the sort, and will have 
many more. Some day, the critics say, she will 
“get it.” Perhaps she will, but never through the 
intentional rage of the animals. Through their 
extreme sensitiveness, and fear and suspicions, plus 
the excitement of the studios, they may strike out 
or sink their cruel teeth into her soft, white flesh. 


We shudder to think of such a tragedy. But should 
Kathlyn permit fear to creep into her heart and 
claim her, then the days of her animal stories would 
be at a close. These beasts feel fear. Perhaps they 
regard it as an indication of treachery. But when 
fear is absent, then intent of wrong-doing toward 
them is not present, and they are at ease, and with- 
out danger. 

Once, a high-caste Hindu gazed at the screen 
showing one of the animal masterpieces of Miss 
Williams, and his eyes brightened. He had known 
of such things among the dark-skinned folk of his 
own land, where the vapors of the Ganges spread 
a strange miasma of mysticism over the forests 
and the plains. He arched his brows, and breathed: 
“How comes it that a woman of the Occident has 
solved our riddles?” And then he lapsed into 
silence, and admired the fair goddess of the screen, 
for he detected in her a kinship — a something that 
dated back, maybe, to the lost continent of the 
Pacific, whence came the philosophers of old. 

Personally, Miss Williams seems to be simply a 
very delightful American girl, interested in the 
same things that other American girls find interest 
in, and absorbed with the same little opinions. She 
is delightful, always — and sincere, as well. That is 
the Kathlyn-of-the-Home. She sets aside her studio 
self, and forgets about her dangerous moments. But 
once she has prepared for a part, then the light of a 
strange understanding gleams in her eyes. Her 
other self has come into power — the self that projects 
assurance to the stealthy, alert forms in the cages 
and pits. 

Stranger than all else, is that there should be com- 
bined in one person this hypnotic power over beasts, 
and a high type of dramatic skill. She seems to be 
fi wholesome American girl thrown into the heart of 
strange adventure, but acting always as we might 
expect' an American miss to act under the circum- 
stances. The screen shows us none of her almost 
uncanny powers — not any more than her conver- 
sation with you would disclose. We must assume 
that her exercise of magic over animals is accom- 
plished without conscious effort on her part — as 
though her waking mind had naught to think about 
but the interpretation of the part. We might feel 
that such strange powers could never reconcile 
themselves to golden hair and blue eyes. But the 
paradox is ever before us. She does not look like a 
sorceress over jungle creatures — and yet she is! 

We are reminded, in considering the remarkable 
achievements of Miss Williams, that we are all cast 
for parts — we have been chosen without choosing; 
we find certain points of least resistance toward 
which we turn without knowing why, or reasoning, 
or questioning. It is doubtful if, through force of 
bravery, one could accustom oneself to mingle with 
the jungle beasts— cunning, fearful of the more 
highly cultured man-animals that have made them 
captive — the sinister, two-legged creatures that build 
strange prisons of slender steel, against which the 
brute-power of the beasts is of no avail. To the 
captive animal, man is the most abominable of all 
enemies — the last to be trusted, and the first to 
select for vengeance. But this slender, fair-haired, 
laughing eyed woman, knowing that danger lurks 
in the restive movements of the lithe denizens of 
the dark, feels no fear, and walks where strong men 
would hesitate to venture. What is the secret? 
Does she know? Or is there not something hidden 
in her mind that projects itself and commands re- 
spect and safety? We ask— but ask in vain — for we 
have learned but little, and must guess blindly at 
the rest. We judge only by watching effects. The 
causes themselves are mysterious. Sometimes we 
think we know — but how far we may come from the 
truth! The animals themselves do not know. It 
is not reason with them — but assurance. That is 
the manner of power she exercises over them — 
assurance. But how many of the rest of us, prat- 
ing of bravery, would find solace amid the cages- — 
when the sun goes down, and the spirit of the wilds 
is loosed in a mad desire for* freedom? But at 
these times, Miss Williams walks among them, 
soothes them, and coaxes back into their troubled 
hearts the feeling of vast content. 

Perhaps the haughty Decius, in modern form, 
may some day enter a picture theater and view 
Kathlyn on the screen. Would there not be awak- 
ened within him a secret memory of the past? 
Would he not rise from his seat and point a finger 
trembling toward her, and breathe, “What manner 
of woman is this?” Perhaps. Who knows? Who 
can guess all the riddles in these work-a-day times, 
where there are so many ordinary things to do? 
All we know is that, out at the Selig Western, there 
is a young woman of classic beauty and marvelous 
charm, who causes the beasts to do her bidding, and 
that we love her because she is Kathlyn Unafraid. 



Whence comes the subtle charm, the weird magnetic grip she holds jj 
upon our hearts? 

’Tis not alone dramatic art for others please us in their varied 

Upon the magic screen, that mimic of our features, actions, thoughts g 
and fears, 

Which registers with eloquence unspoken all our joys, our moods, g 
our tears. 

Whereon we actors see ourselves as others see us, virtues, defects — g 

A repetition of our other selves responding to the Author’s g 

And yet gives glimpses through the Mummer’s mask of our real 
selves and takes 

A message to beholders, one which makes them love us, fear us, g 
seals or shakes 

Their confidence and brings respect or grim reserve, invites response 
in kind, 

Strange telepathic messages, unerring, true, transferred from mind g 
to mind. 

We see her in her rags or coronet, her hair unkempt or dressed |j 
and feel 

Her moods of pathos, petulance, her very frowns or tears are 

’Tis art, Oh, yes, indeed, the art of nature’s artist mirrored heart g 
and soul, 

For be she quaint princess or lowly beggar maid, she lives each g 
varied role 

And lives them all just as she FEELS them, THERE’S the secret g 
of her grip and charm, 

The reason why a great, big, bustling world lies willingly in the jj 
small palm 

Of her well moulded hand, and we who know her days, her home g 
her nature sweet, 

Her kindly deeds to those around her, KNOW just why the worid | 
lies at her feet, 

It j s the girl herself is good. Her charm of heart, her sweet- g 

ness cannot vary 

And so “Miss Pickford” has been lost, we know her not, remains g 

but “Little Mary.” — Richard Willis 

mi I mini IIIIII1III inn nil iiimimm 





Photo by Witzel 


N a quiet nook, 
between the 
majestic hills 
and the deep 
blue ocean, nes- 
tles a Village of 
Art in the King- 
dom of Make-Be- 
lieve, and through 
its winding streets 
all manner of 
charming fairies 
dance, and Prince 
Charmings wend 
their leisurely 
way. It is just 
like an enchanted 
town in the story-books of childhood, and one may 
well expect to see a Spanish Galleon billowing in 
through the mysterious mists of the world beyond, 
laden with pieces-of-eight, and slaves, and a merry, 
bewhiskered band of deep-dyed pirates. 

And this Dreamland spot is Inceville! 

I paused in the offing and surveyed the city of 
golden dreams — and then the zestful odors of newly 
roasted beef greeted my willing nostrils, and I fared 
forth to learn the manner of folk who were gathered 
there. The rhythmic strains of a band mellowed up 
to welcome me — and, behold! I was at home with a 
horde of editors from the Par Country who had 
come to view the place where films are created. 
Ladies of Yesterday, and Courtiers gay, bedecked 
in their rainbow finery, strutted and bowed, and 
brushed elbows in Mission Court, to make a glad 
holiday for the strangers from afar. For a barbecue 
was on, and all manner of good foods waited the 
command of the hungry wayfarer. And the host 
beamed on his multitude of guests — the good host, 
Sir Knight Thomas Ince. 

Thomas H. Ince is the employer of these bold 
knights and fair ladies, and his medium stature and 

By Dick Melbourne 

determined jowl, mark him as a mortal of high 
voltage — who knows what he wants when he wants 
it, as the ad sharks say. Right here I pause to 
make a merry jest: “One can not mince with 

Ince.” This is my own — although Mr. Ince may use 
it if he elects. I had often wondered why the photo- 
graphs of Mi 1 . Ince invariably showed the forehead 
lined like a railway terminal. He is not at all that 
way, except when weighty problems burden his 
mind. He is loved and respected — and he is in- 
spirational, and his dynamic properties are con- 
tagious. He spreads the itch for work — for hard, 
constant work during the working hours, with the 
measure of art tempering the labor. One must ad- 
mire Mr. Ince, for he has brought to reality the 
dream of a few years back; he has created a little 
empire of picture perfection, and he glories in the 
artists with whom he has surrounded himself. 

It is a wonderland — that Inceville— with wonderful 
folk walking its winding lanes. The publican of the 
Ince Capital is Kenneth O’Hara. That does not 
sound much like the Spanish main; nor is it. Ken- 
neth has the snap of Old Ireland in his make-up, 
and this snap is all in tune with Ince requirements. 
He looks very young for such laborious duties — but 
that is because his heart is light. Men grow old 
only when they take themselves too seriously; and 
women, when others take them too seriously. 

It is no place for lazy legs, that Inceville. There 
are steep slopes, up or down, depending on the direc- 
tion of one’s progress. It reminds me for all the 
world of a Devonshire village in England, where one 
progresses from the roofs of one street, onto the 
level of the street above. 

Past the buildings of Inceville, where all sorts 
of wonders are housed, I began the climb toward 
the upper reaches, and believe that all climbers 

Photo by Witztl 


encounter good 
company, for I 
met Charles Ray. 

I did not recog- 
nize him at first, 
for in this King- 
dom of Dreams, I 
fancied I had 
been carried back 
to the stirring 
days of ’ 61 . 

Charles was a 
civil war officer, 
side-whiskers and 
all. We wan- 
dered along a ter- 
race, for Inceville 
is constructed like the interior of a Pullman car, 
with upper and lower berths! This was an upper 
one — the row of dressing rooms, facing the broad 
Pacific. He is a charming fellow, this Ray. He was 
well-named — Ray. He radiates the sunshine that 
his juvenile roles give him as his right. Mr. Ray 
was playing at the time with Frank Keenan, a well- 
known legitimate actor — and both enjoyed the work. 

He is a well-pflt-together fellow, is Ray, and he is at 
home in that wonderlana of Inceville. 

There are various terraces, and some of them are 
devoted to dressing rooms. As I sauntered along 
one of these terraces, I encountered Howard Hick- 
man, who had given himself over to the dreaminess 
of the day. Besides being a most accomplished star 
and a very lovable fellow, Mr. Hickman also has the 
distinction of being the husband of that delightful 
lady of the screen, Bessie Barriscale. Miss Barris- 
cale occupies the room next door. You see, they get 
along beautifully. But this was her busy day, and 
beyond her ever-present smile she had scant time 
.to distribute roses in my direction. Truly, I prefer > 
Miss Barriscale’s smile to many conversations! If 
mean the conversations of some others — not her, 
own! Heaven forbid. 

Louise Glaum 
Photo by Linstedt 

Margaret Gibson 

Bessie Barriscale 
Pliotoplayers Studio 

Elizabeth Burbrld£e 
Photo by Witzel 

Rhea Mitchell 

Photo by Witzel 

Enid Markey 

Margaret Thompson 

Howard Hickman 

Photo by Lori Hard, 

William 5. Hart 


Pholo by Hartsook 

Charles Ray 

Photo by Witzel 

Barney Sherry 

Photo by Witzel 

Richard Stanton 


Photoplayers Studio 

House Peters , 

One of the terraces jutted out over the sea, as 
though it were looking for mermaids! And, bless 
me if there were not some honest-to-goodness fairies 
resting gracefully on the green slope ! I blinked 
hard. This was Story-Bookland after all! No, it 
wasn’t! There was dainty little Louise Glaum. I 
could pick Miss Glaum out of a million, if for no 
other reason than her fantastic gowns and her funny 
little caps. She and the other little fairies were 
listening to the band, and waiting for the call of 
duty. Louise is a heavy! You would never think 
it, but she insisted that she must be a heavy and she 
was. She is a very fine heavy, too — which refers 
to the vernacular of the films, 'and not to pounds and 

Right beyond Louise I saw Rhea Mitchell, one of 
the Inceville leading ladies. Some of them call her 
Ginger” Mitchell, but then, who isn't envious of 
beautiful hair? Her hair isn’t red — only a reddish- 
brown, that catches the glint of the sun like 24- 
karat gold waiting for the finder. Enid Markey 
was also present. You know clever Enid who acts 
opposite to Willard Mack. She is very earnest, is 
Miss Markey, and some day she says she will return 
to the speaking stage. But I wonder if the pretty 
picture of Inceville-by-the-Sea won’t blot out the 
stuffy auditorium, and make her homesick for the 
hills and flowers, and the smiling Pacific that is 
always convenient to encourage one on! Truly 
Shattock was also one of these fairy queens. She 
is a wonderful vocalist — with a voice like a mission 
bell. She sang to the multitude and they encored 
until she could respond no more — a penalty that art 
ofttimes pays! 

I fear I have kept you too long with the ladies. 
No? But let us not forget the men. Therefore, we 
shall start with William S. Hart, togged in his 
western garb, and showing the boys how to ride. 
He is a fine figure, and he fits a horse like money 

fits a bank book. He is rangy and lean — built for 
speed and durability. I hope he detects in this a 
worthy compliment. It is meant that way. 

Richard Stanton was there, also, taking scenes 
in his big feature, "Aloha.” Willard Mack and 
Enid Markey were in the pictures, and under Dick 
Stanton's direction, they always enjoy their work. 
“Smiling Dick,” his friends call him, and the name 
fits him well. His spirit entertains guile toward 
no man, and he is as happy as the kin that he has 
in Heartfree Ireland. 

Tom Brierly was in the throng — the maker of 
scenes and atmosphere. Oh, you thought that at- 
mosphere was made by the Weather Bureau? Tut, 
tut! Tom makes it the way the weather sharks 
formerly made rain. He is the really truly rival 
of Medicine Hat — because he can create atmospheric 
chills as well as atmospheric sunshine. I knew him 
in the old Nestor days, but he is different now, as 
any ambitious, gifted mortal would be who is 
given free reign. He spends money on his scenes. 
No pasteboard and tinsel for him, but solid, endur- 
ing sets that bring reality into the pictures. Brother 
Lloyd helps by managing the men with the saws 
and the hammers. 

But I must not overlook the “big boss,” Eugene 
H. Allen, a man who is stocky of build and filled to 
overflowing with energy, purpose and resourceful- 
ness. He is studio manager. To illustrate the type 
of man he is, I may merely say that Mr. Allen takes 
his reposeful rests in a high-power motor car! 
And Director Walter Edwards was there — an actor 
and a producer blended in one. He was working 
with Lewis S. Stone and Miss Barriscale. He is a 
genuine worker — but, then, who isn’t around Ince- 
ville? Here is a hive that harbors no drones. So 
tremendously busy are they that handsome Ray- 
mond West just nodded the time of day — as though 
he were hastening to the shore to repel an attack 

of those Spanish Galleons! He began as a camera 
man, and was promoted to director, but he has 
never forgotten his camera skill. It aids him in 
producing those wonderfully clear films of the Ince 
trade-mark type. Reginald Barker is anotl . young 
Ince director. He looks boyish — but wb; shouldn’t 
he? It is easier to generate high-tension power 
than wilt in the world of day-dreams. Mr. Barker 
is a producer who helps maintain the high Ince 
standard. And I saw tall, magnetic House Peters 
bending down to emerge from his dressing room — 
the same House Peters who was with Famous 
Players, California Motion Picture, and Lasky. He 
revels in pictures, and his audiences revel in him. 

I should like to dwell on the multiple charms of 
other Incbvillers and Incevillains, but the sun is 
beginning to dip low in the west — like a crimson 
stain on the blue waters. I should like to sing the 
praises of beautiful Margaret Gibson, little 
Elizabeth Burbridge, sterling Margaret Thompson, 
fascinating Leona Hutton, bonny Barney Sherry, 
gracious G rtrude Claire, talented J. Wesley Gil- 
more, forn er Nestor manager — heaven bless the 
bunch of ’em. 

But they know I have said it all in spirit if not 
in the written word, and if it comes from the 
heart, what more is needed? You would love them 
the same as I, could you hobnob with them beneath 
the boughs ! n Inceville, with the Pacific winking 
back at you, and the great green hills beaming down 
upon the scene. You would be reluctant in depart- 
ing, and you would want to stay — and dream the 
dreams of Inceville — the dreams that billiard back 
to you from the screen. But you would feel the 
evening’s coming, and you would look askance at 
the red spot in the sea and at the deepening sky, 
and you would do what I was forced to do reluc- 
tantly — bid a fond farewell to Inceville-by-the-Sea! 

Inside a Romance Factory 

Part III. My Third and Last Day as a Photoplayer — By Oney Fred Sweet 

I T WAS the weather man who cheated me out of 
wearing a dress suit on the third day that I 
was an “extra” at the Essanay studios. Mr. 
Babille had told me I should come next morning 
with my best society manners as I was to take 
part in a ballroom scene. But then Mr. Babille had 
counted on the forecast of "cloudy weather.” 1 
had just completed my arrangements for a fit that 
would have been sure to have made me exceedingly 
popular among the fair movie fans, when Mr. 
Babille interrupted: 

“Nothing doing on the ballroom stuff today,” he 
informed me. “The sky’s too clear. We’re going 
to take advantage of it and go out into the country 
and get that train holdup we’ve been waiting for. 
You’re going to be a bandit today and you’ll find 
the property woman ready with your layout.” 

We sure were a tough looking bunch of bandits, 
too, as they crowded us into an autobus bound for 
a strip of railroad track just outside a north Chi- 
cago suburb. It almost scared me out every time 
I looked at the guy sitting next to me. The movie 
stars, making the trip in more luxurious autos, 
were not greatly disguised and, when opportunity 
offered, I nodded to them as I felt — being a fellow 
actor — I had a right to. Dick Travers was wear- 
ing a mighty stunning uniform and it occurred to 
me that nature had certainly cast him for a leading 
man. Somehow I didn’t think I was going to like 
him because he was so good looking, but on close 
acquaintance I found him a regular fellow. Edna 
Mayo was along too and Betty Scott, and Sidney 
Ainsworth, and a whole bunch of lesser lights. It 
struck me that they all had a pretty good time to- 

I took my part as a bandit very seriously, and several 
times I asked the director If my Jesse James 
expression was suitable 

gether during the day’s work, and somehow I fell to 
hero worshiping Mr. Calvert, the director. 

Mr. Calvert was an old West Point man, I dis- 
covered, and he looked the part. After we got 
into the woods, and between the taking of scenes, 
Mr. Calvert had a habit of unconsciously picking 
up stones and bits of wood and hurling them play- 

fully at distant objects. I took my part as a bandit 
very seriously, and several times I asked the direc- 
tor if my Jesse James expression was suitable, and 
how he thought the red bandana handkerchief 
around my neck would show in the film. It was on 
the depot platform at the little town of Niles that 
Mr. Calvert came upon me surrounded by a group 
oi natives while we were waiting for the train to 
come in. 

“You better go into the depot with the rest of 
the bunch,” he complained. “We don’t care to stir 
up any more excitement around here than neces- 
sary; we’ll be bothered enough by outsiders, at 

“That’s so,” I says, “if they want to see me any 
rno.e they’ll have to wait and pay to see me on the 

Well, you couldn’t blame the natives of that town 
for hanging around a bit curious. Imagine it your- 
self — being in a quiet little town like that with its 
block or two of Main street and seeing a bunch of 
wild westerners suddenly alight from taxicabs and 
autobusses. Some of the bandits wore red shirts, 
wide cowboy hats slouched about their ears, spurs 
clicked at their heels, and most of them were 
heavily bearded. 

Curious small boys of the town hovered in the 
door of the waiting room or peeped through the 
windows, while their elders stood in groups on the 
depot platform allowing that “this here moving 
picture business did beat all.” 

It was aggravating to me that I didn’t have the 
hang of the scenario and therefore could not teli 
( Continued on Page 24) 



“Nobody has a monopoly on the sunshine, bul 
the shadows are over-crowded and over- worked ” 

Really, Miss Steelman can cook. .So many very 
pretty women can not cook, but Miss Stedman 
says, “Dyspepsia is an enemy of smiles, and 
smiles are the salt of the earth. Me for the rest- 
ful stomach and the smiles.” She knows how to 
roll her sleeves up and mix all manner of delight- 
ful dishes. She understands her range, and her 
cook book, and “makes up a lot out of her head.” 
This adds to the attractiveness of her beautiful 
home, and adds to her host of friends, who grow 
weary betimes of restaurant fare, and long for a 
pie like mother was wont to bake. 

But Miss Stedman’s talents do not cease there. 
She is an honest-to-goodness carpenter, and can 
drive a nail better than most actresses can drive 
a motor car. She can saw and hammer, and she 
helped the mechanics of the Morosco studio in 
the construction of certain additions to the plant. 
Leastwise, she sawed a board or two — and wasn't 
that helping? Her own home has fared well 
through her building art, and she no more fears 
a carpenters’ strike than she fears shadows. 

Her dressing-room reflects her good taste. 
There are inglenooks and curtains, and a Japan- 
ese teapot and heaven knows what not, besides 
the regulation grease paints and powder and 
theatrical cold cream. 

This begins to look as though Miss Stedman’s 
praises had been all sung — but, hold ! “Sung” is 
a very good word, because Myrtle Stedman is a 
big sister of the thrush, and wouldn’t need to 
worry if the picture machines never operated 
again. She has a voice — a very beautiful voice, 
and long cultivation has made it wonderfully 
modulated. She was reared for an operatic 
career. When “Wild Olive” was shown in a Los 
Angeles theatre, the proprietor requested Miss 
Stedman to sing, and she did — at two perform- 
ances, charming the audience and bringing forth 
unstinted praise from the press. Indeed, she was 
in opera, and she. was in stock. But always her 
voice was treasured as something precious. And 
today it is as wonderful as it was in the days 
that were. 

“When my fingers rest on the 
keys of the piano,” Miss Stedman 
confided, “and I begin to sing, all 
the fatigue of the day passes. 

But it is not wholly because 1 
enjoy it, I guess; it gives pleas- 
ure to others, and pray, what is 
more enjoyable than making 
others happy? You see, I belong 
to the Smile Club. It is not in 
corporated; it has no charter. 

But its members are world-wide, 
and the membership is growing. 

When I was a member of the 
Whitney Opera Company in Chi- 
cago, I delighted in making peo- 
ple happy with my voice. Why 
should I be averse to the same 
satisfaction now, even if there 
are no boxoffice receipts?” 

The time came when the “fii- 
lums” cast their hypnotic glance 
in Miss Stedman’s direction. She 
fell under the baneful ban, and 
spent many enjoyable months in 
the great red-and-green hills of 
Colorado — up near the roof of 
the world. It didn’t seem like 
work. It was different, acting 
out in the lonely places, be- 
neath the turquoise dome. And 
after a time, she ventured a ques- 
tion. Said she to Mr. Turner, “Do 
you think I will do in pictures?” 

And he confessed that she would 
do. “Stay as long as you like,” 
he told Miss Stedman. “Oh, very 
well,” she responded. “I think I 
shall stay. I rather like to have 
the sky as my proscenium arch.” 

Later on, as the star of destiny lured her westward, 
she encountered the Bosworth outfit, and played in 
Jack London’s “Valley of the Moon,” “Burning Day 
light,” “Smoke Bellew,” and others. She had "found 
herself,” and all the world knew it. And now her re- 
cent Morosco successes, playing opposite George Faw- 
cett in “Wild Olive,” and opposite Cyril Maude in 
“Peer Gynt,” have proved that Myrtle Stedman 
listened correctly to the voice of Opportunity when 
she found music in the clicking camera — and realized 
that its all-seeing eye is the eye of the world. 

She is accomplished — very. She is charming- 
exceedingly. She has a way of making pestilential 
interviewers feel less of their obtrusive guilt, and 
more at home. That of itself is a token of true art, 
for an interviewer — well, a cup of steaming tea 
broke down the barrier and made us friends. 

But let us not overlook Miss Stedman's winning 
smile — the smile that buds in the heart and blossoms 
on the lips; the perennial flower that distinguishes 
this delightful lady and makes us wish to see her 
succeed to such a degree that her success will pass 
all former boundaries. And — that is the way she is 
succeeding, which is a just reward for such a human 
actress, whose heart beats with the heart of the 

Miss Stedman has made a wonderful impression 
in the films. Some actresses from the speaking 
stage seem to forget that the screen has its* own 
peculiar requirements. They retain their stage 
ideas. But Miss Stedman took naturally to the films 
and the result is shown in her splendid work. Her 
admirers are as countless as the sands, and the 
public looks forward to each release in which she 
is starred. These facts are attested by her great 
volume of correspondence, coming from all parts of 
the country, and alive with hearty compliments. 
“Whenever I am acting in the studio or out on 
locations,” she said, “I feel that my audience is 
before me, and that I must be as faithful in my work 
as though the millions were present in person, in- 
stead of by proxy — the proxy being the camera.” 
Miss Stedman’s smile has made her art more endear- 
ing, and has increased the number of her admirers. 

carpenter, and can drive a nail better than 
car: and yet she Is a really-truly, fairy in the 
woman who mirrors the details of her environs 

She is an honest-to-froodness 
most actresses can drive a motor 
sylvan scenes of Filmland— a 

rhoto t>u Hoover. Los Angeles 

There Is a smile In her heart that Illumines the smile on 
her countenance 

H ER DADDY called her “Smiling Myrtle” 
first, and the title endured, as all true titles 
must. A cheerful disposition is greater 
than vast wealth. It is wealth — something 
that panics can not attack, and years can not dim. 

Myrtle Stedman — Smiling Miss Stedman — sees 
only the sunshine. She refuses to gaze on the shad- 
ows, because, as she puts it, “Nobody has a monopoly 
on the sunshine, but the shadows are over-crowded 
and over-worked.” Which, by the way, explains the 
wholesome philosophy of this beautiful star of the 
Morosco studios. Her laugh is not made to order — 
but like the bright skies of Sunny California, it is 
always on duty. 

There's a smile in her heart that illumines the 
smile on her countenance — and there is a rich love 
of humor. Miss Stedman revels in jokes; not the 
practical, harmful kind of jests, but the wholesome 
ones. To illustrate: In “Wild Olive,” she was play- 
ing the part of a dark-haired woman, and her wig 
naturally fitted the demands of the character. An 
actor, who had recently been annexed to the Morosco 
forces, and who had not inquired as to the cast, 
remarked to Smiling Myrtle, “I am so glad you are 
a brunette; secretly, I detest blondes. I am so sorry 
to learn that Miss Stedman is a blonde. How 
strange I should dislike them so.” 

The next morning, on her way to her dressing- 
room, Miss Stedman noticed the open door of the 
blonde-hater, and thrust in her sunny head. “Good- 
morning, Mr. Brunette-Liker. Don’t you think my 
tresses are a nice chestnut shade!” The outspoken 
one gasped in amazement. But, quickly recovering 
himself, he replied, “I knew you all the time, I really 
just wished to get a rise out of you.” He had suc- 
ceeded, and he got a unanimous rise out of the entire 
company as well — for Miss Stedman can laugh at 
a joke on herself as well as she can at one on the 
other fellow. 



. A Thrilling Cruise, But a Pacific Finish 

F ROM ocean to ocean isn’t very far — on the 
map. The men who selected the Lincoln High- 
way didn’t do their traveling by map. Neither 
did Jim Cruze and Sidney Bracy — they of “Mil- 
lion Dollar Mystery Fame.” It’s only a year ago 
that the “Mystery” films flourished in all their glory. 
Jim and Sid have had some glory of their own since 
that time. 

They had left Salida, Colo., and were motoring 
along the skyline of the top o’ the world in the 
Rockies. Jim is western bred so the big hills didn’t 
give him vertigo. Sid and “Mac” and “Al” were 
Bronx-broke, and never saw many mountains higher 
than the Catskills, which, as any westerner knows, 
are not mountains at all — or a-tall, if it looks better 
that way. The mountains Bracy had seen in 
Australia, he had forgotten. 

“How far is it down- there?” Bracy asked warily 
as he measured the distance between the non-skids 
and eternity. 

“Oh, a mile or so,” Cruze responded non- 
chalantly, which is a very good way to respond on 
matters of altitude. 

"Anybody ever fall over?” Sid queried again, as 
he mopped the moisture from his palms. Nobody 
should perspire two miles above sea level, and yet 
Bracy’s hands were humid. 

“Once a fellow fell over,” and Cruze’s mind re- 
verted to the old western days when imagination 
usurped the place of veracity. “He had a fine kit — 
new sweater, a moose-skin cap, a six-gun, other 
apparel, and new rubber boots — nice shiny rubber 
boots. Well, he lost his balance and down he came. 
When he hit, his rubber boots proved their merit. 
He bounded back — not all the way. He could almost 
reach the ledge, but not quite. Once more he went 
into the canyon, and again he bounced up; not so 
far as before, though. Each time he bounded, his 
case became more hopeless. For three days he 
bounced thus.” Jim paused. 

“What then?” Bracy asked sympathetically. 

“The boys had to shoot him to keep him from 
starving to death.” 

“Poor devil!” Sid sighed, as he glanced fearfully 
into the Valley of the Shadow. 

“You don’t believe it, do you?” Mac queried in 

“Oh, no,” Sid admitted with a shiver. “Only, it 
helps absorb my thoughts. Go ahead, Jim, and tell 
another. This time tell about all the details, each 
jump and bound, like; One little, two little, three 
little Indians! It will help save dental bills — my 
teeth are chattering themselves into fragments.” 
Utah is Jim’s home state. He was incorporated 
there, so to speak. The only bad feature about 
Utah, is that so many persons slander it. Utah 
shouldn’t be slandered. It produced Jim Cruze, and 
isn’t that redemption enough? Let us prove it. 

At Provo, a freckle-faced lad eyed the pair curi- 
ously as they drove up before the theater in their 
big, mud-spattered car. (Note; We call it “the car.” 
Jim and Sid bought it, so we stand pat with ’em in 
not advertising its name!) 

“Hello, Bud!” Jim shouted to this particular 
youth. The boy nodded mournfully. 

“Don’t know me, do you?” Cruze persisted. The 
boy nodded his head. 

“Well, I'm from Utah,” Jim continued. “It’s a 
great state, too. Some day you may be a famous 
actor like Bracy and I are!” 

"Him?” the boy asked, pointing at Sidney. 

“Sure, both of us. I was born in Utah.” 

“Where was he born?” the kid queried thought- 
fully keeping a dexter digit leveled at Bracy. 
"Australia,” Jim explained. 

“That in Utah, too?” 

“Oh, no, Australia is fifteen thousand miles away.” 
“No it ain’t,” the lad corrected. “That’d be over 
half way around the world and on the way back. 
We ain’t all nuts just because we was born in 

“That’s the statue of Brigham Young,” said Cruze 
proudly, as the party slowed down in the big square 
opposite the Temple. 

“That guy?” Bracy asked, gazing at the heroic 

“Had forty wives,” Jim continued proudly. 
“Forty!” Sid repeated, holding up all his fingers 
and thumbs four times to confirm the estimate. 
“Forty!” Jim replied with emphasis. Then notic- 

ing tne look of abstraction in Bracy's eyes, Cruze 
continued, “Well, why the doubt?” 

“Oh, there’s no doubt, Jim,” was Sidney’s re- 
joinder, “only I was wondering if those wives were 
all leads or if some were only extras!” 

Idaho isn’t as thickly populated as the Borough 
of Brooklyn, although it takes up a great deal more 
space. Bracy refers to it as the “Region of Vast 
Silences.” Cruze, being of the West, remembers it 
for its Coeur de Alene mining district, a mammoth 
producer of silver and lead. 

“Why, Sid,” he explained enthusiastically, “that 
camp has produced more lead than all of Europe has 
used for bullets in its great war — thousands of tons 
of lead — and lots of silver; oh, mountains of silver.” 
“What kind of silver?” Bracy queried hesitantly. 
“What kind of silver? There you go, you tender- 
foot; why, there’s just one kind of silver, and that’s 
silver, just as there’s one kind of lead. Didn’t think 
there were many kinds, I hope !” 

“Oh, no, just two kinds of silver, but several kinds 
of lead, such as Entente lead, and Ally lead. And, 
Jim, considering all the bullet material those mines 

produced, I wondered ” 

“Wondered what?” 

“If they might have produced German silver?” 
“Oh, yes,” Cruze responded airily, “about Teu- 

“Let’s write poetry,” Jim suggested one night in 
an Oregon hotel, long after the last show. “We’ll 
make up complimentary poems about each other.” 
“As you say!” Bracy agreed, sleepily. After some 
moments of labor, Cruze straightened up, with 
triumph showing in his flashing eyes. As a poet, Jim 
is a fine actor. This is what he produced; 

Sidney Bracy 
From Australia, 

Though he’s crazy. 

He won’t failya! 

“Pretty good,” Sid admitted, “Now, shall I read 

“Shoot!” Cruze ordered, with the light of triumph 
still in his eyes. 

This was Sidney’s; 

Jimma da Cruze, 

Beega da sport, 

Drinka da Booze, 

By a da quart! 

The light of triumph faded from Jim’s eyes. They 
were in a dry town! ! ! 

In a northern California town, a peg-legged man, 
with a cannabalistic, cadaverous countenance, plod- 
ded after them all day At each show, he occupied 
a front seat. On the street his timber prop and one 
squeaky shoe thumped behind them doggedly. As 
they ate their meals, the sorrowful looking stranger 
gazed through the windows at them. 

“Poor fellow,”- Sid sighed, “maybe he’s hungry.” 
“Likely a stick-up,” Jim suggested in his mysteri- 
ous western way. “Probably has a rifle concealed 
in his wooden leg. We’d better keep cases on him.” 
At each evening performance, he was present, 
saying nothing, but watching intently. After the 
final act, he thumped along menacingly in their 
wake. Plainly, in the vernacular, he “had their 

Suddenly Jim turned and faced the decimated 

“Well?” he asked sharply. 

“All’s well!” the peg-legged one replied wearily. 
“Then why are you following us?” Cruze de- 
manded hotly. 

“I have only been waiting to ask you a civil 
question," the cripple piped tearfully. 

“Fire away!” Cruze commanded. 

The peg-legged one cleared his throat nervously. 
All day he had awaited this opportunity — bad gone 
without food and comfort to enlighten his troubled 

“Well?” Jim prompted impatiently. A wan smile 
stole over the Frankenstein-like face. 

“I want to know,” the other began hesitantly, 
“how long it tuk ya to grow them beautiful whiskers 
in Zudory! I’m so damned homely, I’d give this 
here other leg to raise a fringe like that to hide 
my doggone countenance. Jim Cruze, whiskers is 
a great means of beauty. They sure is, Jim. 
Whyinell didya ever cut yurn off?” 

Autograph friends are numerous. Just what good 
an autograph can do — or what harm — neither Cruze 

nor Bracy could ever fathom, until that last day 
of the coast-to-coast journey shortly after the waters 
of San Francisco Bay had greeted them. They had 
just completed their toilet in their rooms and 
Peggy Snow had gladdened Husband Jim’s heart by 
her unexpected but welcome arrival from Los Angeles. 

A young man — an apologetic, Sunday-schoolish, 
smiling young chap, approached them timidly as 
they chatted in the lobby. 

“Mr. Cruze?” he asked gently, as he toyed with 
a memo book and looked hopeful. 

Cruze nodded. 

“It’s a foolish request — a common one,” the youth 
began, “but I love to collect autographs of great 
players. May I have yours?" 

Grasping a pencil in his fingers Cruze wrote his 
famous J. Hancock on the memo sheet, the young 
man bowed and departed and Jim, Peggy and Sid 
resumed their conversation. 

A clerk approached them hurriedly. 

“Mr. Cruze,” he broke in nervously, “did you know 
that young man? I hope you didn’t give him your 

“Sure, I did. Why? He’s a good kid, isn’t he?” 

“He!” the clerk responded in amazement. “Why, 
that’s Spencerian Spence, the cleverest forger on the 

“I wish I’d known it,” Cruze commented thought- 

“Well, when you open a bank account you’ll know 
it, all right,” the clerk replied heatedly. 

“Oh, that isn’t the idea,” Cruze corrected hastily. 
“He can’t harpoon me that way, but gee! what a 
find he’d be as a secretary. Just think! If I sent 
him to the telegraph office to send a wire, the fellow 
who got it wouldn’t know that I hadn’t written 

And Bracy laughed in both hands, and pretended 
he was smothering a sneeze. 

The representative of the Company who made the 
automobile the actors used, called on them in San 
Francisco. He was loud in his praises of the car, 
enthusiastic over its splendid condition, and like- 
wise hopeful of publicity. 

“Few water troubles?” he asked, beaming on the 

“Few,” Jim admitted. 

"And not too much outlay for gas?” 

“Nope," Biacy agreed. 

“Many punctures?” 

“Not many.” 

“How about blow-outs?" 

“Blow-outs !” the pair echoed. “Say, we had ’em 
in every town!” 

“Oh, well, that’s up to the’ tire company," the 
agent mumbled philosophically. 

“Tire company?” Bracy chuckled. “The blowouts 
we had didn’t seem to tire our company in the least. 
And every time we had a blow-out, it was character- 
ized by the loud detonations of both Brut and Dry!" 

“Well, Jim,” and Sid brushed away a suspicious 
globule beneath each eye, “the best pals must part. 
Vacationing is over. We’ve seen the breadth of the 
U. S. A. Broadway beckons me and the Coast 
claims you. As a final act of fraternal affection, I’ll 
match you to see who gets the car.” 

“Oh, you take it — gwan, take it,” Jim urged. 

“No, we’ll match,” Bracy persisted. 

“Very well, what’s your choice?” 

“Heads,” said Bracy. 

Jim extracted a coin from his pocket, and poised 
the silver-piece on his thumb. 

“Heads, did you say?” and he looked at Bracy 

Sid nodded his affirmation. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t take heads if I were you. No, I 
can’t permit you to take heads. Neither will take 
heads!" y 

“Then how can ope win?” Bracy asked in be- 

“It's a two-bit piece, Sid,” Jim replied cordially, 
“and we’ll take tails — cocktails,” as he led the march 
to the bar. “You see, Sid, that fool agent got stuck 
on the old boat, and bought it back for what we paid. 
Now we’ll cut the gate, fifty-fifty. We’ll both take 
tails, eh? Hey, Mister, make it a Bronx on two — 
that’s so homelike!” 

And tbe Cruise of Cruze and Bracy ended in a 
toast to the Land that Begins where the Sun Comes 
Up and Extends to the Sunset Coast. 






The Fade-out and Fade-In of the Chill and Glow of a Man's 
Heart In the Sunshine of a Woman 

f E STANDS over six feet and is as hand- 

I 1 some as Apollo.” Thus the world passes 

[ upon the physical make-up of man. Not 
so with talented Henry Walthall, lead in 
“The Avenging Conscience” and star and hero in 
“The Birth of a Nation.” As one great poet put 

“Though I could reach from pole to pole. 

And grasp Creation in my span; 

I must be measured by my soul — 

The mind’s the standard of the man.” 

Henry Walthall is not tall, and he does not 
claim to be handsome. But there is a light of the 
superman, the beam of genius, that illumines his 
countenance and makes him different and far 
superior. He has that wonderful dynamic “some- 
thing that, for want of a better name, we call 
magnetism. His presence radiates from the screen, 
and yet that presence dovetails so nicely into the 
theme of the story and the cast and the action 
and the beauty of the play, Henry Walthall has 
taken his place as the dramatic criterion of the 
screen. He does not admit it. He may not even 
think it. Henry Walthall is modest and unobtru- 
sive. Acting art, as applied to the photographic 
drama, has suited his special adaptabilities. 

Those who have seen the two great Griffith 
plays recognize that Henry B. Walthall is distinc- 
tive in his interpretative art. When David Wark 
Griffith first met this young actor at the Biograph 
studio, the great producer recognized the genius 
that awaited molding for the topmost plays on 
the screen. And yet Henry Walthall did not go 
into pictures and remain with them. Indeed, he 
might never have taken up films for his work had 
it not been for James Kirkwood. They had been 
together in stock for several seasons, and both 
being quiet, thoughtful men, their friendship was 
natural and durable. Then came the Summer with 
its stage holiday, and Henry Walthall had little 
to do. Through the persuasion of Mr. Kirkwood, 
he visited the Biograph studios and watched the 
filming of a play in which Mr. Kirkwood was act- 
ing. Mr. Walthall studied the direction and the 
work of the cast. It was then that Mr. Kirkwood 
introduced the future great star to Mr. Griffith, 
and there is no question that Kirkwood put in 
many elaborate “asides” that started Griffith 
thinking about the possibilities of this stranger. 

The appearance of these new features on the 
screen was a fact that was noted and commented 
on favorably by picture patrons. The question 
began to circulate throughout the land: "Who is 

this new picture actor?” Pew knew his name, and 
the company he was with did not lavish advertis- 
ing on its stars, nor did Walthall himself crave 
publicity. He did not understand the value of its 
purport. After more work on the legitimate stage, 
he returned to the Biograph and became associated 
with Griffith. Time and again these associations 
were severed through the trend of events, but the 
magnetism of both men drew them together re- 
peatedly, and the friendship that was begun 
ripened into mutual admiration. They respected 
each other. They have never been niggardly or 
backward about heaping praise upon each other’s 
heads, and yet they have not been in each other’s 
company as much as one might suppose. 

“The Birth of a Nation” was Henry Walthall’s 
big play. He will have other big plays in the 
future, and through the vehicle of that master of 
production, Mr. Griffith, Walthall found himself, 
and wherever these films have been shown there 
was always one name on the lips of those who 
viewed the play — Walthall. Every emotion that 
can be found upon the strings of human sympathy 
have been brought into action by this star in 
“The Birth of a Nation.” Happiness, hope, despair 
grief, determination, tenderness, belief, invention, 
satisfaction, organization, revenge, love, hatred— 
these and a thousand other reflections of the soul 
are to be found in Mr. Walthall’s part. And in 
the expression of each emotion and each mental 
change will be found the indelible imprint of genius. 
We do not say that it is Mr. Walthall's eyes, or his 

expressions, or his dramatic action, or any other 
single thing that makes him what he is. It is all 
of these talents working in unison. If you were 
to stand back quietly in the Essanay studio and 
watch Henry B. Walthall at work, you would realize 
at once that he had shut out all of the rest of the 
world. He lives each second before the camera and 
what he lives is explained by the part he plays. 
Many aspiring screen actors shout and talk and 
babble as though a multitude had gathered before 
them. The words that Mr. Walthall speaks are 
generally inaudible. He has stilled vocal action. 
He is speaking the words in his mind as though he 
feared his voice might disturb him. 

Henry Walthall is a Southerner and it is natural 
that he should possess certain Southern characteris- 
tics, prominent among which is his inborn pride. 
He resents uncouth familiarity which strikes a dis- 
cord in his nerves. He never thrusts himself upon 
any one. He feels that he should be privileged to 
select his own companions and decide on his own 
friends. If you have seen Mr. Walthall in "The 
Birth of a Nation,” you could not help feeling the 
slow anger that kindled within him when his kin 
suffered insolence. You could sense that gentleness 
and tenderness of his nature, as though his opinions 
would prove incorrect. As these tragic facts drilled 
deeper within him and he cogitated the insults in 
the moments of his calm meditation, the fire of 
anger would burn more brightly — not the sputter- 
ing or red flame that is so commonly seen in the 
emotional work of the films — not like the crackling 
wood-fire, but rather the slow, steady, intense, even 
heat of the coal fire’s glow, until the red turns to 
cherry and the cherry to white. 

I T IS not remarkable that Henry Walthall does 
not appreciate his own genius. True genius never 
appropriates unto itself the fame that must be de- 
cided by others. It is too busily engrossed in its 
own affairs. Art can not stop to worry about the 
world. If the world decides later on to gaze and 
admire and become enraptured, well and good. But 
the world must not worry a genius. It must let him 
go his way, because what he does is natural to him. 
It is part of him. It is something that has entered 
into the weave of the warp and woof of his being. 
There were times, when the Photoplayers’ Club of 
Los Angeles was at its height of popularity, that 
Mr. Walthall would saunter into its seclusion, meet- 
ing his friends and acquaintances and modestly sit 
at a table while the others babbled their fleeting 
opinions. Some would sing and some would recite. 
Some would engage in oratorical fights. One day, 
they prevailed upon Walthall to aid in the enter- 
tainment. He obliged with “The Day it Rained.” 
A silence fell upon the assemblage like a benediction 
at eventide. Those who heard, felt and shared the 
sorrows of the man who loved and lost. His own 
well-modulated voice was in marked contrast to the 
more vociferous efforts of the others. 

When one thinks of that voice, it is not difficult 
to understand Walthall’s success on the speaking 
stage. A perfect delivery, clear enunciation, rich 
sympathy, and the mastery of dramatic interpreta- 
tion were all blended in the words that Walthall 
spoke. There is that minor touch of a Southern 
accent, which was his true heritage and dates back 
to the days when his folk were cotton planters in 
Alabama. The Alabama estate is still there and 
sentiment counts it part of the family possession. 
Some day Walthall will return to the old mansion 
under the Southern skies. In these environs, he spent 
his childhood, and here it was that he and his 
brothers and sisters were educated under a private 
tutor, many miles separating them from other hab- 
itations. He was eighteen years of age before he 
ever saw the interior of a theater. Once he had 
viewed the art behind the glow of the footlights, 
he was determined on his career. Walthall’s mother 
looked askance upon her son’s histrionic ambitions. 
Indeed, he may never have taken up a stage career 
had it not been for the fortuitous outbreak of the 
Spanish-American dispute. He enlisted in a 
southern regiment and journeyed as far as Florida, 
where fever took him and spared him from the firing 


line. But during the days of his convalescence, the 
theater proved more alluring than ever. 

The time came when Mr. Walthall’s mother was 
taken away. Then he bid farewell to the old 

Southern mansion and turned his face toward the 
great metropolis, whence had come wondrous stories 
of the Great White Way and its marvelous array of 
playhouses. The words of the immortal Shakes- 
peare echoed and re-echoed in his ears: “The play’s 

the thing.” 

It was in New York that he met the manager of 
the Murray Hill Stock Company and was given a 
small part. That was all Mr. Walthall really 

wanted, and from that time on he continued to 
climb. He joined one stock company after another, 
doing his share of the one-night stands and often 
six different plays a week. But this all has to do 
with the speaking stage, and perhaps that is not 
really what we wish to hear. It is interesting, how- 
ever, to note that he was with Henry Miller for 
four years, appearing in London with that great, 

well known star in “The Great Divide.” This was 
between engagements at the Biograph. Fate had 
decreed that this should be the “great divide” and 
that beyond it must lay his unbroken film career. 

Since joining the films, Mr. Walthall has been 
with the Biograph, Reliance, Balboa and the 
Essanay — the latter alliance being of recent date. 
During his screen career, he has given the world 
some wonderful pictures, including not only those 
to which allusion has already been made, but also 
through his Hollofernes in “Judith of Bethulia;” as 
Strongheart, the Indian, in “Ramona;” in “Home, 
Sweet Home;” in the Ibsen dramas put on at the 
Reliance studios. In “Ghosts,” his acting was a 
study and carried with it such pronounced dramatic 
emotion, it did not seem to be a thing of this world 
at all. It breathed horror % which means the very 
frontier of dramatic art. 

Henry B. Walthall has fared very well materially. 
He owns property in California, Alabama, Florida 
and New York. Nor does he desert the call of the 

gods of recreation. With rod and reel, he seeks 
the quiet places where he may meditate while the 
wary fish nibble furtively at his bait. He reads 
good books, and is passionately fond of music. He 
loves the quiet, the refined and beautiful; and yet, 
in no sense is he esthetic. He is rather easy-going 
and believes that everything will happen in its own 
good time. Henry Walthall is a gentleman. It 
might be said that he is a gentleman of the old 
school, although his dramatic work is up to the 
greatest requirements of the present day. His con- 
nection with Essanay auger still greater things. 
In “Temper” and “The Woman Hater,” Mr. Walthall 
has already forecast what successes he will achieve 
in his Essanay roles. He has found a permanent 
place in the esteem and affections of the public, and 
he has established new standards. In the screen 
art, Henry B. Walthall is admittedly the greatest 
exponent of the silent drama, beyond which we be- 
lieve no other compliment is necessary. 

Salisbury Wild Life Pictures 

This is the second 
of a series by ihe 
famous cinema- 
tographer of wild ani- 
mal life. The Salisbury 
pictures constitute one 
of the most important 
contributions io natural 
history in a generation. 
They surpass all former 
nature studies in that 
they show wild life in 
motion. Every school 
boy and girl should agi- 
tate for the Salisbury 
pictures at the local pie- 
tureplay house; they 
will be enjoyed as much 
by grown-ups. 

T HE Rainbow trout is 
a very elusive and 
extremely active member 
of the restive finny tribe, 
and in taking motion 
pictures of these Cali- 
fornia mountain-stream 
natives, we have numer- 
ous exciting experiences. 

They are big fellows, 
these Rainbow speci- 
mens, and some of them 
grow to a weight of thir- 
ty-five pounds — tempta- 
tion for the most ardent 
angler. The Rainbow 
trout is more highly col- 
ored than his cousin, the Steelhead, and indeed the 
latter shows decidedly human vacation characteris- 
tics, taking to the salt water once each year, but 
returning to its natal fresh water to spawn. On the 
other hand, the Rainbow trout has naught in common 
with the brine, and is found only in lakes or streams 
that have no direct connection with the ocean. This 
may read distractingly technical, but there is some- 
thing in wild-life that is akin to the balance of us 
mortals — and who can know too much about nature? 

Upon investigating the habits of the trout family, 
I found Mr. and Mrs. Rainbow returning to the same 
stream as high as ten years in succession — produc- 
ing the while their own chromatic counterparts. 
You may doubt that one can recognize a fish, or be 
on speaking terms with it for ten years. But the 
Government Inspectors do not depend on their mem- 
ory for faces; they place metal tags in the fins of 
these beauties — and the tags tell their tales of visi- 
tation. In approaching the stream, these fish usually 
appear above the falls, by climbing natural steps, or 
ladders, or by means of the artificial ones con- 
structed by the Fish and Game Commission. Some 
of the fish, and especially the salmon, are so strong 
that they are able to swim “uphill,” right through 
the falling water. Such speed is back of their efforts, 
they frequently shoot several feet in the air after 
gaining the top of the cataract. 

It is a difficult task to secure clear pictures of 
these denizens of the water. I have seen thousands 

Not alone on land, on sea. In the air, has the clicking camera projected Its force, but even Into the realm of the finny tribe 

of these trout plainly, and yet the camera has been 
incapable of catching the movements of their shin- 
ing bodies. The trap-houses, in which we impound 
these fish, cause these huge congregations. But 
when the fish were taken from these traps, to be 
spawned artificially, we secured some most remark- 
able pictures, which, I believe, are the first of the 
kind ever taken. Many folk have told me that they 
had no idea that fish could be forced to propagate — 
but the truth remains, and students will find much 
to contemplate in looking into the details of this 
important industry. The moving picture has brought 
wild-life into our very homes — at our threshholds, 
and has invited us to know the nature of which we 
are a part. The wilds are robbed of their mysteries, 
and nature is made to divulge her innermost secrets, 
that have all the while been awaiting the scientific 
command of man. 

It happens sometimes that some strange incident 
— one, perhaps that may not be duplicated in a 
thousand years— presents itself to the cinemato- 
graphic scientist. But so small a thing as a tiny drop 
of water or a grass-blade on the lens may ruin this 
solitary chance to picture a deep secret of the wilds. 
Once, after making the most careful preparations 
to procure pictures of mallard ducks, we learned, 
upon examining the films, that a splash of water 
across the lens had ruined the day’s most alluring 
and unusual work. Yet my camera-men had been 
careful — had taken all precautions — all but foresee- 

ing the water-splash that 
screened from the view 
of men some of the 
most striking truths 
about these beautiful 
feathered creatures. 

It is not the water- 
drop or the dust-fleck 
that works all the mis- 
chief; ofttimes the me- 
chanical clicking of the 
camera will set the in- 
habitants of the wilds 
scurrying, swimming or 
flying to cover. Still, 
great good fortune has 
attended our efforts. 
Who would believe that 
mortal man could get 
within three feet of a 
living, alert mallard? I 
did it — and we could 
easily have filmed sev- 
eral hundred more feet 
of these suspicious 

You, who view the 
Salisbury pictures on 
the screen, see only the 
snappy incidents. Hun- 
dreds of thousands of 
feet of film have been 
taken in order to get the 
“big moments,” and but 
a fragment of the whole 
has been shown. The 
picture audience de- 
mands everlasting 
change. One second of tarrying will cause shuffling 
of feet and yawns. The audience, I venture with all 
respect, is as difficult to please as the wild game! 

I feel that I have succeeded when I hear folk in 
the theatre say that they could have watched much 
more of my sort of films. Like the temperate meal, 
it satisfies, but leaves a yearning for more of the 
same kind. But to surfeit the public! That is a 
different thing. 

In our jaunts through mountains and woodland, 
we became careful students of nature — the good 
nurse that leads us all, be we human or “lower,"' 
through the mesh of experience. We learned many 
interesting things about these little folk of the wild. 
We learned when and where and why the birds were 
to be found in their nests — and the most favorable 
conditions for these original monoplanes. We 
learned why mallards construct their homes in hay- 
stacks, and why mud-hens build their nests on the 
surface of swamps. Thousands of details came be- 
fore our notice — and always we found that these var- 
ious tribes of streams, air or wood, had a sort of 
organization — like monarchies or republics, inde- 
pendent of the greater governments of men. And 
we found, too, processes of thought in many of these 
“lower animals,” showing that we of human form- 
have not monopolized the powers of Creation. And 
I am sure that you will think of these truths when 
you view “Salisbury Wild Life” on your home- 
theatre screen. (To be continued.) 






portico of the Tivoli hotel and clapped his 
I hands lustily. Jerry was not encoring an act; 
he was attempting to lure a cochero from the 
lazy shade of the palms that skirt the drive above 
De Lesseps Park, and pursue a vanishing landeau 
that even now was swinging zigzag fashion into 
Panama's Avenida Central. 

“Dammaeussedspiggoti!” McGuire breathed hotly 
and peevishly, as he fanned the tropic flush from 
his inflamed features. “They never want to carry 
just one — and me willin’ and glad to pay four-bits 
silver a mile! Gawd, such bustlin’ enterprise!” 

In the speeding coach that the officer watched in 
anguish were Grace Mollaine and Vivian Sinclair, 
frightened suspects, madly in love — not with men; 
heaven forbid! In love with the ambition to escape. 
Since that terrible “murder watch” had reappeared, 
and the Star and Herald and the Journal had com- 
mented on it freely, the hapless ladies were the 
most talked-about persons on the Isthmus — always 
steeped in plot, intrigue and tragedy, but welcoming 
each new morsel with a hunger that knew no sat- 
isfaction. A block or two along the main thorough- 
fare of Panama, the coach did a customary thing 
for a Panamanian vehicle: It collided with another 

coach, and lost one wheel in the impact. Vivian 
and Grace were pitched headlong to the rough pave- 
ment, and there they lay — crumpled little heaps of 
suffering femininity, that most any gallant on earth 
would have paid a king’s ransom to rescue. It was 
thus that Sergeant McGuire found them a few 
seconds later, and a sense of pity almost mastered 
his regard for duty. 

“Poor dears,” he muttered, glad to know that Mrs. 
McGuire was in distant New Orleans and couldn’t 
hear his blubbering pity. "Poor dears, mebbe they 
ain’t so bad as I’ve pictured ’em.” Tenderly, he 
gathered Grace in his arms and placed her in his 
waiting coach. Then he picked up Vivian with 
equal tenderness, and found time a moment later to 
shake a hard, round fist at the gaping, jabbering 
natives — sprinkled with the ample ebony of 
Jamaican and Barbadian origin. 

"Them bloody blacks,” Jerry mused, “talks like 
a lot o’ English lords — landlords! Happy the day 
English landlords ain’t black, or how in blazes would 
me kin pot ’em on a stormy night in Ireland? But, 

still, as regards their hearts, them English is ” 

“Beggin’ your pawdon, sir," one of the blacks bel- 
lowed, as he hastened to the vehicle. "Hi found 
this ’ere on the pave, sir; hit may be himportant!” 
Jerry gazed steadfastly at the negro with the cockney 
accent, and shook his head sadly, forgetting thanks 
and other gratuities. The language of the Ethiope 
was beyond him. Then he turned his eyes to the 
bit of paper that was in his hands. It was a cable- 
gram from the States! It was addressed to Miss 
Mollaine and contained the single word, "Flee.” 

“It makes a noise like a bed-bug,” McGuire whis- 
pered whimsically, as he knit his troubled brows 
and pondered what idiot could be paying six dollars 
and eighty-five cents for one word “flee.” While thus 
musing, the coach made a sharp turn that nearly up- 
set the already dishevelled occupants, and began the 
climb back along Balboa Road to the big govern- 
ment hotel in Ancon. 

The young ladies had opened their eyes curiously 
before they had reached the Tivoli, and stared in 
open amazement at Jerry. They were so bewildered 
and hysterical, the policeman almost forgot his fine 
philosophy about beautiful women. The fight was 
gone out of them. They were little and shrinking 
and very helpless, and that is a fearful combination 
for a policeman to solve. Jerry swallowed vainly 
at a huge, aching lump in his throat, but the more 
he swallowed, the larger the lump became. Then he 
blinked very hard and made a resolution — which 
he carried into effect next day. He would be done 
with this gum-shoeing; he would question the young 
ladies ingenuously, and be out in the open with his 

Vivian and Grace were seated on the rear veranda 
the following afternoon, pretending to read, but 
really whispering feverishly, and they looked up 
helplessly as McGuire approached them in an awk- 
ward, quasi-official manner. 

"Now,” he began slowly, for all the world the way 
a hungry cat might address a captive mouse, “we 
are goin' to be good frens. What do you know 
about the Conway killin’, eh? Where was ye on 
the night o’ the murder — but, remimber, annything 
you state may be used agin you! By the by, do you 
mind a puff o’ smoke? I have here a rare Dago 
cheroot that I fain wouljl burn. Thank ye. Now, 
let us proceed:- You had Miss Conway’s watch! 
You tried to thrun it in the ocean; a guy named 
Muldoon says as how he was holdin’ out of his hand 
a-feelin’ for rain, when you drops the bauble over- 
board, and he catches it. I believe him. There ain’t 
nothing agin Mike Muldoon, except his likin’ for 
tropic rum. Apart from that, he’s a gentleman an' 
a scholar. Young ladies, take one careful look at 
this watch.” Whereat Jerry McGuire withdrew the 
trinket from his pocket, and both young ladies gazed 
hypnotically, squealed in a minor key and promptly 
fainted. Truly, it was exasperating. It was annoy- 
ing to be so near to the truth, and then have the 
poor girls flop over senseless. McGuire was un- 
accustomed to quarry of a Dresden China strain. It 
was beyond him. The kind of women he was wont 
to interview would have cursed him roundly, and 
made him feel at home. Also, he would have an- 
swered them unabashed. 

It was days later when the girls opened their eyes 
to the world of reason. They were in nice, white, 
little cots in Ancon hospital, and a mad fever was 
spending itself in their frail bodies. Uncle Sam had 
stepped in, and there was no more of the third 
degree to annoy them. Their records had been 
traced, and those records were immaculate. Nor 
did the young ladies want for attention; every 
doctor attached to the hospital was imbued only 
with the idea of serving them. • They were more 
secure than they would have been in their own 
homes. And yet, as soon as they were able to travel, 
they were bound on a dangerous mission; they 
were on their way to London to offer their services 
to the Red Cross. 


E TIENNE LE CROIX had a strange ague when he 
learned that the boat on which he and Jack 
Randley and Billy Mumford had shipped, was a 
blockade runner. The little Frenchman had vague, 
but thrilling, mind pictures of German submarines. 
He had no taste for boats that could stick their 
eyes out of the water and then sneeze a torpedo 
into the hold of a contraband-laden ship, and par- 
ticularly when that ship had a cargo of deadly ex- 
plosives — sufficient, in fine, to blow a good-sized 
island from the sad, blue sea into the valleys of the 

“Eeet eez what — ah, la — what ze gran’ American 
generail say — Mistair Sherman — about war. He 
was eorree’. Do I so much as light a cigarette — - 
bah, comes ze captain, lookin’ dagger ! ’We blow r 
up! Pouf!’ he say. Well — some day — some day — 
mebbe we get ze feet on land. Oh, ze beautiful 
land — la!” 

Randley smiled wanly. He was beginning to 
accept Fate as Fate is— without asking questions. 
After all, how did he know that the Girl in the 
Pathe would beam on him after all these hair- 
brained escapades? Perhaps they would meet in — 
well, let us say heaven. And again, maybe they 
wouldn’t. From the best authorities, Jack felt that 
heaven held no corner lots for the idle rich. He 
was not deserving of any girl. He was a twenty- 
four karat hobo, and he knew it. He was a high- 
class tramp, living on what he had no right to own 
— if stories of the origin of the family fortune could 
be credited — and expecting a beautiful girl to trust 
him for life. 

A deafening roar assailed his ears. He jumped 
so far and so fast, he was at the rail before he 
knew it. Etienne was crumpled near the cabins, 
praying. A submarine greeted them from port. A 
solid shot from an eight-inch gun had been sent 
across the tramp steamer’s bows. The jig was up. 
They were captives. Etienne Le Croix was beyond 
words. The worst he had imagined, had occurred. 
He was limp and helpless. Walking was quite be- 
yond him. How could he ever get to the life-boat, 
even if he had a chance? Billy Mumford saw the 
poor little detective and took pity. He gathered 

Le Croix in his arms, and started toward the rail, 
undecided whether to save his charge or pitch him 
overboard. Billy was heartily sick of the whole 
affair, but he had himself to thank, and he knew it. 
Gluttony had caused him to smother a lie in the 
beginning, and now what were his prospects of 
eating? Well, he had Le Croix, and likely all our 
forebears were cannibals. As that horrible thought 
raced through Mumford's mind the little sleuth 
kissed Billy's hand. Le Croix was dropped heart- 
lessly to the deck. The shock was too great for 
Mumford. He might eat a man, but kiss him, 

“It’s the boats,” the captain cried hoarsely, a 
white terror showing through his bronzed skin. 
The crew, with equally blanched faces, stood by. 
The game was done. The promised prize money 
would never be paid. The tramp steamer would 
shortly be atomized. And — it was! With food and 
water, the crew and their hapless guests pulled to 
sea, and were permitted to progress a thousand 
yards before the torpedo was fired. How they saved 
their eardrums or kept from capsizing, were ques- 
tions they did not dare answer. A sheet of flame 
shot skyward, and the roar was beyond all sounds 
they had ever heard — if it was hearing. Sound was 
surely not like this earth-and-sea-upsetting shock! 
A rain of shrapnel (furnished by the fragments of 
the ship) fell all around them, and a miniature 
tidal wave caught them on its crest and carried 
them three hundred yards at top speed. Then the 
sea closed in on the hole, and nature began to smile. 
The submarine had vanished beneath the surface 
turmoil, and was bound for new adventures. 

Twenty hours later, the men were picked up by 
a trawler, but they found scant sympathy in Eng- 
land. Gun-cotton was too precious these stirring 
days! It was a pretty mess. Randley and Mumford 
were without funds, without friends, without every- 
thing except Le Croix. He would be with them 

"It's a deuce of a fix. Jack,” Billy commented, as 
the three of them paused in Trafalgar Square. 
Billy’s belt was jerked up to the final notch. For 
one who loved food so keenly, this was punishment 

“We’ve got to do something, Jack,” Billy per- 
sisted. “What shall we do? Ah, I have it! We’ll 
take Etienne, here, and find a job for him as chef. 
He can support us until we get money from home.” 

“Ze cook — bah! I, ze proud detective? I, ze 
great American detective — I ” 

An ample hand was placed roughly on Le Croix's 
yielding shoulder. He gazed fearfully into the 
graven features of a broad-beamed, sinister per- 
sonage — one of the Scotland Yard ilk. The trium- 
verate of unfortunates were under arrest — as sus- 

Weeks passed. The American ambassador refused 
at first to listen to the tales of Randley or Mumiord. 
Their records looked bad. They were adventurers 
— and, besides, the ambassador knew a little of the 
inside history, and he was obligating a certain 
American family that had been unduly annoyed by 
"Madcap Jack Randley,” as (hey put it. The ex- 
perience was embarrassing, and it was wearing. 
At the same time, it was good for the soul, and good 
for the body. Mumford was a great admirer of 
simple fare before two weeks had passed. His rising 
girth had been checked; he was getting back to 

A letter was delivered to Jack one morning. It was 
postmarked New York. This is what it contained: 
“Mr. Randley: 

As a gentleman, desist. Your quest is 
hopeless. You are a blunderer and an ass. 

The girl you seek is beyond you, quite. 

Join a convenient army and if you can’t win 
a cross, get killed, and oblige. 

An Outraged Family.” 

Jack smiled grimly, yet there was no laughter in 
his heart. He was a blunderer and an ass. He 
knew it. For the first time in months, he felt 
heartily ashamed. He would join an army — any 
army. Maybe he could get himself killed. While 
he cogitated these cold thoughts, his vision rested 
on Le Croix. He would trick the diminutive 
detective into the army. If Randley must be a 
sacrifice, then Etienne Le Croix would also be 

offered up on the altar of heroism! The thought 
cheered Randley immeasurably. It Is not good to 
die among strangers. 


B ILLY MUMFORD coaxed Randley to show him 
the note. Billy read it critically and frowned. 
Knowing more about the situation than his friend, 
he purposed to permit no war perils to enter into 
their worries. There was trouble enough as it was. 
Therefore, Billy resorted to strategy. He would 
leave no stone - unturned to avoid the tragedy of 
battle. Fighting men against whom he bore no 
animosity, was not to his liking. Mumford’s great- 
grandmother on the paternal side of the house, was 
Italian. She married a Frenchman; their daughter 
had been wedded to a German. On the maternal 
side, there was Russian blood and there was Eng- 
lish blood. Well, there was a strain of Austrian 
somewher^, too! How could he divide his sympa- 
thies? When the Alliance lured, the Entente held 
back! Besides, Billy wasn’t a fighting man! 

Money finally came from the States; not much 
money, but a few hundred dollars. Then the author- 
ities relented — at the ambassador’s request — and 
the prisoners were released. The air, fog-laden 
though it was, seemed sweet. Liberty was precious, 
and particularly after their harrowing experiences. 

“I say, Jack,” Billy began strategically, as soon 
as they were at large, ‘‘I have an idea. But to work 
out that idea will require a week; ten days possibly. 


I must be trusted implicitly during that period. 
Now, to make my plans a success, we must lie low. 
I propose a suite of rooms in some quiet place, 
where we may feel secure from intrusion. No, just 
a moment, fellows! This is a plan to terminate the 
war!” Mumford averted his gaze. He neglected to 
explain that it was their war he would terminate. 

The very thought of being an international hero 
caused Randley’s chest to bulge. How sweet is 
Fame, even in prospect ! Etienne Le Croix sighed 
sadly. “Ees ze plan safe?" he queried tremulously. 
“Very!” Billy responded with gusto. “La!” Etienne 
gurgled, grasping Mumford’s right hand and kissing 
it rapturously. 

“Nix! Nix!” Billy bellowed. Some day that 
good right hand would crush the breath out of the 
impetuous sleuth-hound. 

“Oh, I know ze good hide-out,” Le Croix con- 
fided. “Eet ees ze side-street — a beeg — what you 
call, ze family hotel. Shall we go see it?” The 
others agreed. 

The hostelry was not prepossessing, but it was 
suitable. Its patrons were rather under the middle- 
class; a trifle scurvy, perhaps, but at least unob- 
trusive. The food was coarse, but wholesome and 
plentiful, and the landlord asked no questions. One 
might have fancied that every one in the hotel was 
hiding out. A few of the roomers looked mangy, 
and one had bad eyes — watery, red-rimmed eyes 
that might have come from too much rum or con- 
siderable weeping. 


The third day, Etienne rushed into their living 
room quite out of breath. He held a finger to his 
lips cautioningly. 

“Ze meestery!” he whispered excitedly. “Ze gran’ . 
meestery! Hush! Ze girl! She lives across ze 

“What girl?” Jack queried tremulously. “What 
girl, Etienne? Speak!” 

“Ze girl — ah, la, la — in ze Pathe!” 

“The deuce you say!” and Billy and Jack gazed 
at each other in stupid amazement. “Where?” Jack 
questioned anxiously. 

“Across ze street! Honest, true! I see her, and 
oh, ze uzzer beautiful girl — um! Zey so sad — oh, 
so sad !” 

“Let’s go find ’em!” Randley was vibrant with his 
awakened amour. So, at last, in the heart of 
London, they were to meet! Mumford was equally 
anxious but displayed less fervor. He had his mis- 

The street on which their hotel was situated, was 
extremely narrow. It would have been a scant alley 
in America. The building across the way was squat 
and ugly, with two slender windows on the second 
floor and a double door on the ground floor, that 
gave the structure the appearance of a grotesque, 
staring, impudent face. How any such divine crea- 
ture as the girl could find solace in a house of such 
evil aspect, was beyond Randley’s understanding. 
Nevertheless, he was not hinging his hope on a 
(Continued on page 25) 

TKp T rv c f By mildred waska 

XXL V. — ' J. — 4 v_x O L X L X V 1 With Decorations by Herself 



'HE day of miracles still lives around the corner. 
Theda Bara in five parts! (Would ya balieve 
it?) Was it a dime museum performance or 
just Theda Bara on screen parade? LADY 
Some poor neglected 
skeleton escaped from 
the family closet when 
the key-hole wasn’t 
plugged up. And they 
forgot to hang up the 
ADMITTED.” Over went 
my dime, in went I. Talk 
about subterranean darkness! While floundering 
for a seat, I obstructed someone’s view — a voice 
like a fog horn yarped: “Say 

kid, is your father a glazier?" 

Sceered? I meant to drop down 
into a seat in a hurry but missed 
my guess — and the seat, too — 
and flopped on the floor with a 
thump (good thing I wasn't made 
of glass). 

By the time I collected my 
equilibrium and all my belong- 
ings that got away from me 
like the big fish we hear about, 

I was ready to gaze at Theda 
Bara in 5 parts. No such luck! 

She came along the beach to hear what the wild 
waves were saying, but instead, saw 
her father trying to walk straight 
bringing home a bun — for break- 
fast. Water, water everywhere and 
yet the lake was dry. She popped 
her eyes and gave a good imitation 
of the Campbell Kid dolls — then 
when she got through popping them, 
went to help her father home. Man- 
like he wanted to carry the bun alone and while 
they squabbled, a Don Quixote came to talk peace. 

They got rid of the ^ 

father, and hatched up a 
love affair. She didn’t 
want to marry him be- 
cause she couldn’t take 
her father with her into 
society. But she did! I 
mean she married. That 
was the “first part.” A 
year later the father was 
still bringing home buns 
and Theda was arbitrat- 
ing with the infantry — I mean she was rocking the 
baby to sleep. The husband was out of a job — 

Theda B* yh 

in 5 ]wts. 

She was human. 

Ktt Eyes. 

r e<*.ce 


poor but proud, who would rather go to Australia 
to hunt gold than work his rich father for money. 
Out there, all he could wash was his hands be- 
cause there wasn’t any gold to wash. He wrote 
home to Theda, but her father used the letters for 
fuel. One day when she sat in the kitchen crying 
for her husband, her father told her to quit snivel- 
ing and go to work to earn money. She 
did all of that. 

Now for the 3rd part. She 
enlisted as a private secretary 
for Sir Audley, made a mash 
on him and completed the job 
by marrying him. And where 
was her first husband? In 
Australia fighting the hook 
worm. He found a wad of 
Quit SmveU'nv ! sold while he was delirious 
J " and started back to the land of 
neutrality to find his wife and chee-ild. His old 
college chum met him and told him his wife 
belonged to another— 

(them was crewel 
woids). Theda had a 
maid that looked just 
like her — not that it 
was her fault, but any- 
way, the maid died. 

There was Theda’s ? ^ 

chance to play her card. SU>yiT>9 tH<? riiy ■ 
She put her wedding 

ring on the maid’s finger to bluff the people into 
believing that the maid was herself. Then the 
husband wouldn’t know she 
was alive and married to 
Sir Audley. Catch a man 
not finding things out! 
What he didn’t know, his 
college friend told him, be- 
cause he happened to be- 
long to Sir Audley. He 
— called on his wife at Aud- 
"Kidlinj Vin, in tV - ,e >’ Court and she got so 
■"'ll. excited — “I saw her smile, 

although her eyes were 
only smudgy tears, and then she swished her 
swirling arms and wagged her gorgeous ears. She 
sobbed a blue and green checked sob and wept 
some purple tears.” 

Rather than have her second husband find out 
her secret that she had another husband, she pushed 
him into the well. Well, well, well! Wasn't that 
fierce? Once more the secret was hers, but it 
began to fray at the edges. Soon it became frazzled 
when the college chum butted in and wanted to 

know where the first husband was. Was he still 
in the well? (Not on week days.) The butler 
hauled him out so they could have fresh drink- 
ing water. He left town and all he left behind 
were his best regards. 

The college chum told Theda 
he would squeal on her if she 
didn’t tell her secret to Sir 
Audley. Curses! The mere 
thought of spoiling her secret 
made her mind skid and she 
went crazy. Dressed in black 
she went to the well to die. 
What did the poor well do to 
deserve such treatment? She 
died just in time. Just then 
her first husband came along with the chum and 
saw her keel over. But she died when they 
reached he r — not 
because they reached 
her — but the husband 
said to the chum: “Let 
her rest in pieces — I 
mean peace, why pick 
on her now? Let her 
be buried as Lady 
Audley. (A nice way 
of getting out of the 
burying expenses.) 

He didn’t want to raise Jv,e 
his boy to be a soldier — his family tree would 
leave — and he didn’t tell us where he was going, 
but he was on his way, and — just then somebody 
knocked the ink well over. 






EDITOR’S NOTE: — Miss Waska will continue to 
enlighten us, from issue to issue on the current thrills 
of the screen. 



Natural Bessie Barriscale 

“An artist must absolutely know how to carry himself, how to dress, 
the proper use of his eyes and his hands, or he can never be 
anything else but someone else mixed with himself, so to speak” 

B ESSIE BARRISCALE, the accomplished New 
York Motion Picture star, is the embodiment 
of the NATURAL school of acting. Being 
natural is almost a cult with her; she is her- 
self in private life, while on the screen she is the 
artist — she lives the part that she portrays. 

She owes this 
largely to' the advice 
of one of the greatest 
actors of all time, 

Louis James, who 
took a great fancy to 
the bright little act- 
ress when she was 
emerging from the 
child actress to the 
more matured artist. 

He said to her, “Eliza- 
beth (he never called 
her Bessie) you are 
leaving me and I am 
sorry, for I have 
watched you careful- 
ly. Remember, my 
dear, do not lose 
your naturalness, and 
you will be popular, 
for you are naturally 
clever. That is all, 
but I conjure you to 
bear my words in 

Miss Barriscale 
never forgot what 
James had said, and 
whenever she found 
herself “acting,” she 
remembered and took 
herself to task. Here is the charm of Bessie 
Barriscale — truth to life. This was never more 
evident than in “The Cup of Life,” the first big 
picture she acted in for the New York Motion 
Picture Corporation and the photoplay which se- 
cured her a long-time contract with a regal salary. 

There is nothing of the actress about this charm- 
ing woman in private life or in her dressing room; 
it is only on the stage that she is anything other 
than the altogether nice lady she really is. Her 
home at Santa Monica is homey and there do con- 
gregate some equally likeable people who find the 
latch-string loosened, and who appear with none of 
the flippant finery of pretense. 

N OW Miss Barriscale has a manager and a good 
one, too — her husband, by the way; and he is 
known as Howard Hickman, one of the best screen 
actors of the day and one of the most pleasant of men. 

Miss Barriscale at a recent typical “at home” 
supper, gave this opinion after the company as- 
sembled had agreed that naturalness was the great- 
est factor for success on the screen! “It is hardly 
possible to be natural in one’s acting unless one has 
not had previous experience. Actors or actresses 
who are reasonably sure of themselves are self- 
conscious and when any trace of self creeps in, then 
naturalness flies away. An artist must absolutely 
know how to carry himself, how to dress, the proper 
use of his eyes and hands, or he can never be any- 
thing else but someone else mixed with himself, so 
to speak. Experience on the speaking stage is 
genuine sound experience, to my mind, and stock 
experience is better than any other. It enables an 
actor to disassociate himself with one character and 
assume another one at short notice, and he has to 
do this with far greater rapidity on the screen than 
on the stage. Again, an actor who has not had a 
world of experience, has to be shown how to do 
things, and this bothers him and troubles the direc- 
tor; while with an experienced artist, the director 
gives his ideas and permits the actor to use his own 
individuality and ideas which, with but little direc- 
tion, fulfill the desires of the producer.” 

We have said that Miss Barriscale is natural and 
it is interesting to play audience at the recitation 
of some of her experiences. t She started acting at 


the age of five, and her cousin, Mabel Talliaferro, 
had an advantage over her, for she started at two 
and one-half years of age! Miss Barriscale’s first 

effort was the child’s part in “Shore Acres” with 
grand old James A. Hearne. She finds it difficult 
to name the parts which followed, but says that 
they included about every known kiddie part, em- 
bracing “Li’l Eva,” the child in “The Celebrated 
Case,” and “Fauntleroy.” 

Her father was an actor and came to America 
from England with the first “Lights O’ London” 
company which was sent over from the old country. 
Her grandfather followed, dissuaded the son from 
acting and persuaded him to go into business. She 
did not inherit any acting talent from her mother, 
who was only behind the scenes once and that was 
when the dresser was absent and when her daughter 
wanted her help in buttoning up things. Her daddy 
was very proud of her and it was through him that 
she continued to do the one thing which she had 
any real taste for. It may therefore be said that 
Bessie Barriscale is a child of the stage. 

M ISS BESSIE seems to have been tremendously 
fortunate in having been associated with the 
well-known actors who were not regarded as upstarts 
or youngsters. For a long time she studied and 
acted in repertoire with kindly Russ Whytal, and 
she has heaps of nice things to say about him, too; 
in fact, this seems to be a habit of hers, getting 
attached to the artists she has worked with, and 
speaking highly of them. Then for two years (the 
thirteenth and fourteenth years of her life) she was 
with the man who gave her the sound parting ad- 
vice, Louis James, with whom she played Feance in 
Macbeth, and other parts, and at the same time 
understudied Katherine Kidder in “School for 
Scandal,” as Ophelia and various other Shakespear- 
ean parts — a rare experience for a girl so young. 

Her next engagement was difficult to obtain, and 
her own account of her trials is both humorous and 
pathetic: “I was neither girl nor woman; my air 

was grown up and so was my experience, but my 
dresses were short and I was at the gawky age, with 
my hair hanging down and with the self conscious- 
ness of it all. Things were not going right at home 
and it was necessary that I get something quickly, 
so I went to Frederick Bond at the Fifth Avenue 
Theater and saw him, and asked for the ingenue 
position. Mr. Bond tried not to laugh, and looked 

me up and down until I grew angry and scarlet. 
Then he told me that I was but a little girl and 
could never fill the position. It was useless for me 
to tell him all I could do; he knew it all, but my 
appearance was against me. This was on a Satur- 
day. I spent most of Sunday in weeping and calling 

myself names as I 
looked in the glass, 
but mother came to 
me and said, ‘I would 
not cry if I were 
you; why not try 
something else in- 
stead?’ This started 
me thinking and on 
Monday morning 
mother lent me one 
of her dresses and 
helped me put my 
hair up. I pulled 
myself together and 
got another appoint- 
ment with Mr. Bond. 
I told him I had 
come to apply for the 
position of ingenue 
with his company. 
He looked at me for 
a moment and then 
burst out laughing 
and said, ‘I knew 
you had the expe- 
rience; now I know 
you have the right 
spirit. The job is 
yours.’ My first in- 
genue part was with 
Russ Whytal in ‘For 
Fair Virginia,’ and then followed all the well-known 

Later when she had firmly established herself 
as a foot-light favorite, she was seen as Lovey Mary 
in New York, and she went to London and appeared 
in the part for ten enchanting months. “Almost 
long enough to cultivate an accent,” she laughingly 
says. Among other people she has played with here 
have been Margaret Anglin and Charles Coughlin. 

M ISS BARRISCALE is a great favorite on the 
Pacific Coast, where she was sent by Belasco 
to take the leading part in “The Rose of the 
Rancho” at the Alcazar, San Francisco. She re- 
mained there for a year and they have wanted her 
back again ever since. Then came her never-to-be- 
forgotten creation of the part in “The Bird of Par- 
adise,” which Richard Walton Tully wrote for her 
and which was produced in Los Angeles where it 
played for five weeks. She suffered disappointment 
when the Morosco management would not let her 
go east with the play; she was too big an asset 
here. Her last big engagement on the stage was in 
“We are Seven,” by Eleanor Gates, played in New 
York City, when she returned to San Francisco and 
later received an offer from the Lasky people to 
play her original role in “The Rose of the Rancho,” 
for the scl-een. We all know what a success she 
made, and this one appearance obtained for her the 
present position she occupies with the New York 
Motion Picture Corporation at Santa Monica. Did 
you see “The Cup of Life?” If not, you missed a 
great photoplay; one of the finest ever filmed. In 
this Miss Barriscale showed the gradual transition 
of a girl’s character, and when the time came to 
make her hideously ugly, she did not do it by halves. 
Her performance in this and “The Painted Lady” 
have stamped her as one of the finest actresses who 
have graduated from the speaking stage to the 

Remember, when you do see her, that her success 
is due to absolute naturalness, that she studies 
out her various roles and does them as she believes 
they would be done in real life. The result is that 
one never tires of her performances, for one forgets 
that she is an actress. She is a disciple of nature. 
She portrays the highest art; which is naturalness 



Volume II SEPTEMBER, 1915 Number 3 


Published monthly. 

Subscription price (in advance) in United States and 
possessions, $1.00 a year; in Canada, $1.25 a year; in 
foreign countries, $1.50 a year. Single copies, ten cents. 

Copyright, 1915, by the Photoplaywrights’ Associa- 
tion of America. Entered as second-class matter 
April. 30, 1914, at the postoffice at Chicago, Illinois, 
under the act of March, 3, 1879. 

Published by the Photoplaywrig'nts’ Association of 
America, Hartford Building, Chicago. 

All communications should be addressed to MOVIE 
PICTORIAL, Hartford Building, Chicago. 

“They copied all they could follow , but they 
Couldn't copy my mind , 

And I left 'em sweating and stealing 
A year and a half behind 

— Rudyard Kipling. 

Needed — Uniform Censorship 

It is a senseless demand that censors should go, but 
it is a reasonable demand that censorship should be 
uniform. The film manufacturer, who has complied 
with the stringent demands of the Chicago board of 
censors, does not know whether his picture will pass 
the censor boards of Milwaukee, or San Fran- 
cisco, or New York, or any other place. The 
National Board of Censors does not have the sanc- 
tion of united authority back of it, and in conse- 
quence, any censor board may override the opinions 
of that organization know as the National Board. 

Films are used in interstate commerce, and yet 
the Interstate Commerce Commission seems to have 
rules and regulations for pretty nearly everything 
else; none for the films. The film manufacturers 
today are very much in the same position as man- 
ufacturers in general: They do not know when they 
are right and when they are wrong. A rule that is 
laid down today may be altered tomorrow. Rules 
are not laws. 

Censorship is arbitrary. It is based on opinion. 
The majority of voters in the United States are 
picture patrons, and yet these patrons do not rally 
to the cause of the manufacturer and do not insist 
that their duly elected law-makers see that uniform- 
ity of picture censorship is established. 

The speaking stage presents pretty nearly any 
problem play its promotors may conjure up. The 
speaking stage, however, is not patronized by chil- 
dren to the extent that is found in moving picture 
theaters. Consequently, we can not say in verity 
that there is a parallel. 

Soon or later uniform regulation will be estab- 
lished, and let us hope it will be soon. Some man- 
ufacturing companies spend enormous sums prepar- 
ing plays for the screen and in advertising those 
plays, and yet never feel secure and never know 
when a poorly digested beefsteak, agitating the 
digestive organs of some sour-visaged censor, may 
mean a direct loss of thousands of dollars through 
the unjust censoring of films. 

Local censor boards, being branches of police de- 
partments, object to pictures showing dishonesty 
among public officials. Unfortunately, many public 
officials are proven dishonest, and if the public is 
not to be acquainted with the methods of dis- 
honesty, then where is American freedom? There 
must be limitations to police authority. A police- 
ridden community is a corrupt and decaying com- 
munity. Here and there a police official has a broad 
point of view, but manifestly the police are not the 
ones to censor photoplays. 

Since the governors of states have fallen into the 
habit of holding conventions, unifying criminal and 
civil codes of the various commonwealths may prove 
a very wholesome result. Perhaps motion picture 

questions will be handled by these governors in 
session and through their concerted opinion, will 
find places in the messages of those state executives 
to the legislative bodies of the various common- 
wealths. Whatever the remedy, the picture-play 
patron can help bring it about. 

The film companies are not looking for license, 
but for freedom. And this freedom also includes 
the patron. MOVIE PICTORIAL has set itself the 
task of agitating the question of uniformity in cen- 
sorship, and every reader should cogitate the same 
subject and act upon it. 

Individuality of the Player 

The rule of some film studios to withhold names 
of casts from publicity, is not a healthy or com- 
mendable tendency. Suppose you were to pick up 
your paper and look at the announcement of current 
or coming theatrical attractions. What would be 
your first point of consideration? It would be the 

The greatest playwright of all time was William 
Shakespeare. Three hundred years ago, he set the 
pace for the vast armies of playwrights that fol- 
lowed. It is not enough to know that a Shakes- 
pearean play is to be produced. We must know the 
names of the members of the cast. “Macbeth,” 
“The Merry Wives of Windsor,” “Twelfth Night,” 
“The Merchant of Venice,” “Romeo and Juliet,” and 
other Shakespearean plays, would be sad burlesques 
handled by an unskilled cast. 

If your favorite actor is Otis Skinner, or James 
K. Hackett, or William Collier, or any of the others, 
you feel that the actor has made the selection for 
you through the very fact of his appearing in a 
certain play. In the same way, you feel that if 
you see the name of Mary Pickford or Henry Walt- 
hall or numerous of your other favorites advertised, 
you know that you are going to be satisfied with the 
play, because the real artist can overcome many of 
the impediments of the photoplaywright. Beyond 
that, you know that only the best photoplays will be 
selected for these stars. 

We believe that the few studios that suppress the 
names of their actors and actresses, are committing 
a grave error. The name of the photoplay means 
nothing. A fancy title may be but the gossamer 
covering of a decidedly no-account play. The im- 
portant considerations in guaranteeing your enter- 
tainment are the players, the play, the production, 
and the photography. It is the combination of the 
cast, the photoplaywright, and the producing com- 
pany that furnishes this entertainment to you. The 
question of the subordination of the player will never 
prove a success, because the public demands to 
know and feel and understand the individuality of 
the player. And more than twenty million picture 
theater patrons look for the names of the players 
and pay small heed to the name of the play. 

Inspiration — Genius — and Hard 

According to our religious training, the world has 
boasted anywhere from two or three to a few dozen 
prophets. A prophet is a person who is presumably 
inspired by direct communication with the divine 
source of knowledge. Most of us are not so inspired. 
Leastwise, the circuit is grounded and reaches us 
much diluted. 

Genius is not necessarily the outgrowth of 
prophetic vision or divine inspiration. Genius is 
the expresson of the most pronounced natural gifts, 
that become the more artistic as they are developed. 
There are few geniuses. No man elects himself to be 
a genius. That is a point that must be decided by the 
force of his labors and is usually decided after he 
has been dead several generations. Many admit 
that they are divinely inspired, but the vote is never 
unanimous. Most of the worth-while achievements 

of this world are accomplished through hard work. 

Different persons are inclined in different artistic 
or avocational directions. Some persons naturally 
lean toward mechanics, or some branch of art, or 
invention, or teaching. With the proper training 
they become proficient in their chosen professions. 
Inclination, on the other hand, does not always 
indicate native ability. Some men and women have 
“found themselves” after they were forty years old, 
or fifty years old, or even older. They made the 
wonderful discovery that they had been in the 
wrong branch of business. They could not succeed 
until they found the point of least resistance. 

When we are told that there will never be another 
generation of dramatic art as great as the present, 
or another generation of photoplaywrights as great 
as the present, we turn to history and history re- 
futes the contention. 

The hard, conscientious worker is generally the 
one who succeeds the best — and when strenuous 
labor is fortified by talent, then the success is 
greater. The distribution of talent did not begin in 
this generation, nor will it terminate with this 
generation. The pictureplay did start in the present 
generation, but it will pass on to posterity and con- 
tinue to live, ages after every film of today has been 
destroyed by oxidation and through other natural 

It is unreasonable and unjust, and certainly il- 
logical, for any person, or any set of persons, to say 
that all the talent of the movies has been exhausted. 
Such statements merely bear evidence of sublime 
egotism or blind ignorance. There is no such thing 
as the greatest man in the world, any more than 
there is such a thing as the strongest man in the 
world. We succeed best by doing our work as well as 
we can do it. Each of us may reach a possible 100 per 
cent. But one person’s 100 per cent may be only 
40 per cent of another person’s full capabilities. 

While we are convinced that the films have pro- 
gressed more rapidly than any other branch of art, 
because they combine numerous divisions of estab- 
lished art, we are still forced to believe that the day 
of progress has just begun and that it will not be 
completed in this generation, or in the next, or in 
the one after that. The last record of success in 
this world has not been made; nor will it ever be 
won so long as there are human beings to struggle 
and labor. 

The Incidental Legitimate Star 

While the majority of film play leads were for- 
merly speaking stage players, there is no argument, 
we believe, that would prove legitimate stage ex- 
perience to be all-sufficient in film success. The 
studio is different from the stage. Camera restric- 
tions, lighting effects, and the manner of producing 
photoplays are all fundamentally different from the 
processes involved in the legitimate drama. 

We question that the name of a speaking stage 
star, suddenly thrust upon the pictureplay public, 
has any particular value or means anything unusual. 
If the legitimate player joins the silent drama with 
a view of being a permanent fixture on the screen, 
then the screen does perhaps gain a most valued 
acquisition. On the other hand, if the speaking 
stage star jumps into a play for the films and out 
again, the value of that intrusion is questionable. 

Time and time again, it has been proved that 
film favorites meet with only partial, and usually 
dismal failure when they appear on the legitimate 
stage. They have stepped out of the sphere of their 
talents and reputation, so far as judgment goes, and 
the same rule applies in the other direction. 

The legitimate star, who enters the movies in- 
cidentally, is as doleful a spectacle as the ordinary 
dramatic playwright or fiction author who decides 
to take the burden of photoplay writing from the 
shoulders of the accomplished photoplaywrights. If 
the old rule regarding the cobbler and his last has 
any value, it should be applied to the differences 
between the spoken and the silent drama. 






How much time do 
you spend within its 
enchanted walls? Do you go three or tour times a 
week — or maybe five times? Then you spend about 
five hours weekly, or twenty hours monthly, watch- 
ing the magic screen. That means two hundred 
hours a year, or twenty-five eight-hour days. You 
have helped make the picture theatre possible; 
you must help to make it more agreeable. There 
are about twenty-one thousand photoplay houses 
in the United States; they entertain over twenty 
million regular patrons, besides many occasional 
patrons. Unless you, and others, help make your 
voices heard, you are not going to get the best 
service; the kind of service that is coming to you 
for your money. 

We are going to pay a few prizes monthly just 
to help everybody boost for better theatre condi- 
tions. This is possible through knowing merits 
and lack of merit — through praising what is good 
or exposing what is evil. The picture theatre has 
gone through many wonderful changes these past 
few years, and it must go through other evolutions 
the next few years. It has pressed the legitimate 
theatre hard to the wall. It is the people’s play- 
ground, where nickels and dimes can brush away 
many of the cares of the day, and usher all of us 
into a land of pleasing make-believe. 

Earn a Prize 

To encourage you, we will pay five one-dollar 
prizes each issue for the five best letters, whether 
they pass a bunch of violets to the exhibitor or cast 
a cobblestone in his direction. Candidly, we like 
one as well as the other. What is right, should 
be encouraged; what is wrong should be discour- 
aged. If you notice either class of conditions, tell 
us about them, and we shall be glad to pass them 
on to the world. This department will become a 
sort of round robin for the patron. It will be a 
petition for the best — and it will help the exhibitor 
see his errors without being unduly unkind. Note, 
we say “unduly unkind,” because if we must be 
unkind, for the good of the cause, let us wear our 
very best frowns. 

Some of the Things to Watch 

Bill Smith came down the street the other even- 
ing with a mildewed expression. Plainly, Bill was 
disconsolate. What was wrong? We asked him. 
Said Bill: “That blanky blamed exhibitor of that 
rippity blank theatre has about as much sense as 
a two-day old lamb — and that sort of lamb hasn’t 
any sense. I was in to see the films tonight and 
what do you suppose I saw? Three different reels 
released by the same film company, and each a 
different story, but all with the same cast! If he 
doesn’t know any more than to select that sort of 
programme, I am through. I will keep my jitneys 
and coax them to grow into quarters.” 

Bill was right. It is rather a shock to one’s 
sense of proportions to see a movie star as a young, 
dashing hero in one play, and then as an old man in 
the next play. It doesn’t fit in. We keep thinking 
of the individual rather than of the part he plays. 
But they do it, and why? Many exhibitors select 
their programmes according to the names of the 
plays, and stop there. They are as pleased over 
titles as one of the old-fashioned boys of dime- 
novel days. They look no further. They select at 
random, the way a goat goes camping. And— how 
do you feel about it? 

This is the least of their offenses. They book 
films that ran their course years ago — films so 
badly worn that parts of them are missing; films 
that seem to be back of a heavy rain-storm, and 
make us believe that the exhibitor is in cahoots 
with the optician next door. The exhibitor gets the 
old stuff for a song, and it isn’t worth a whisper. 
That’s the answer, and if we permit it, sheep-like, 
that is all we deserve. If we are not good enough 
for the best, we should have the worst. 

Conducted By Our Readers 

There are other disagreeable things, also, such 
as crowded foyers with no ventilation, and fabri- 
cating ticket takers and ushers who keep us cool- 
ing our heels in the lobby under the false belief 
that the next show starts in ten minutes. We 
breathe one another’s breath-poisons, and enter the 
playhouse feeling half ill. We have a sneaking sus- 
picion all the time that our dimes are more im- 
portant than our comfort. If this is all the theatre 
man thinks about us, and if we think nothing more 
about ourselves, that is also all we have coming to 
us; it is what we bid for, and what we get. 

But — the worries increase. The butcher and 
baker, and corset-maker, and the notion store man 
must have their slides, and we have to look at the 
miserable daubs twice a night and every night, 
simply because the money we pay in at the box- 
office isn’t enough to take care of the fiduciary de- 
mands of the exhibitor. We get the ads rammed 
down our necks, whether we will or not. As Bill 
said, “Let a merchant take up my theatre time, 
and I won’t be so ready to patronize him. He plays 
me for a fish, and if I am a fish, I hate to be 
reminded of it!” Again, William is right. 

Sometimes the seats are too narrow, or the venti- 
lation is bad, or a draft blows on our necks, and 
makes us resort to drug store first-aid-to-the-in- 
jured. Or the usher is impudent, and feels that 
we are so many sacrifices offered up at the altar 
of the stock-yards — blind ninnies without souls or 
sense. And maybe that usher couldn’t earn as 
much all week as we earn in an hour. It slaps our 
dignity, and makes us feel like being profane. It 
is poor business. 

Then, there is the good-natured old lady who sits 
back of us and reads all the titles and sub-titles, 
and also anticipates the plot, and marvels at her 
own cleverness in deducing what is going to hap- 
pen. She is like the little hoy who wonders what 
it is all about, and rises to ask, every time any one 
starts for the door in a picture, “Ma, where’s she 
goin’ now?” It punctures our concentration; it 
reminds us that we are a lot of blithering infants 
grown a little older — when all the time we are 
there for the sake of illusion. Life itself is a good 
deal illusion, so why shouldn’t we like to buy the 
most acceptable kind? 

Sometimes the first show has one more reel than 
the other shows, and we can’t all go to the first 
show. Again, at the last show (which should be as 
important as the first one), some of the pictures 
are run through fast, and the musicians don’t care 
a rap whether they play or quit. We are debris, 
and it hurts our feelings and brings lumps up in 
our throats. We all dislike being "done” even 
when the doing is very small. It injures our 
pride, and we have just as much right to pride 
as the exhibitor himself! 

Watch the Releases 

Suppose you keep close watch of the films shown 
in your theatre? Are they late releases? Are 
they varied? Do they run too much to religious 
subjects, or predominate unnecessarily in melo- 
drama, or become lop-sided in one way or another? 

Does the exhibitor buy what he likes, or through 
indifference, or because he wishes to please various 
classes of patrons? If we get a wrong food combi- 
nation, though all the food is good, it makes us 
uneasy— internally. If we get the wrong programme 
combination, it is like a bad mixture of food. Maybe 
we see too much Wild West, or too much Crime, 
or too much this, that or the other. . Why not 
“speak out in meeting” about it? 

There is another way to watch the releases: Are 
you getting releases by just one company? If you 
buy a magazine, you don’t get one author’s writings 
exclusively. You get various types and lengths of 

stories, written by many dif- 
ferent authors. Why should 
your programme not be about 
that way? Why should the 
reels bear only one trade mark? Aren’t you full 
grown, and don’t you dislike being told what 
you must have? The reason your exhibitor gives 
you one company’s releases exclusively is because 
he gets a better price on programmes, and you miss 
what the other companies are putting out. You 
don’t know any more about films generally than the 
man who watches the same ball teams exclusively 
knows about baseball in general. What is the use 
of all these masterpieces unless you can see them? 

Don’t smother your wrath. Don’t tolerate had 
conditions if you can get better. We are going to 
help you get the better because it exists, and it is 
ours of we persist in having it. 

Look for Good Things 

Don’t become entirely a pessimist. Have an opti- 
mistic point of view. If your exhibitor does some- 
thing better, let us know about it. If you feel 
that he is a regular human being, with your inter- 
ests at heart, let us know. If he has a new and 
novel way of advertising, tell us about it. If he can 
make you feel better through the service he extends 
to you, we want the world to know about it. The 
exhibitor is not catering alone to your dime, but 
to other dimes. He is a tradesman. He is in busi- 
ness to entertain you, and apart from what the film 
manufacturing and distributing companies can do 
— beyond what the actors and actresses and photo- 
playwrights can do — there are some other things 
the exhibitor can do, and should do. If he knows 
how, praise him. If he doesn’t know how, teach 
him. If he refuses to do right, roast him. 

Exhibitors generally are growing better. Some 
of them have their own worries; and again, some 
of them merit worries. Let us try to be impartial 
and unprejudiced, and not take snap judgment. 
Note the facts while your anger is burning: but 
write your views a day or two later. If you are 
related to an exhibitor, don’t be too glowing in 
your praise of him. If you are an exhibitor, say 
so, and tell your story. Exhibitors are not barred 
from these Tradelast controversies. 

Five $ 1 Piizes 

The dollar itself isn’t much; the fun of getting 
it is worth while, because it shows you that you 
have helped agitate an important subject, which is 
the entertainment of more than twenty million 
deserving Americans. We are going to publish 
not only the prize-winning letters, but others as 
well. These letters should be about one hundred 
words in length. Don’t write a book! Wit lies in 
brevity — if it lies at all! 

Tell us about your theatre— the programmes and 
their merit points or poor points. This does not 
mean that you are to mention individual releases, 
or the companies back of the films. It means the 
make-up of the programme — the variety, or lack of 
variety. Tell us about ventilation, how the patrons 
are handled or not handled, about lights, seats, 
screens, music, general behavior of patrons and 
how the manager insists on good conduct. If you 
think your picture theatre is nothing but a flirting 
colony, say so. If it lacks in moral proportions, 
shout against it. Tell us about fire-protection, 
exits, advertising ideas, ushers, and everything 
else that pleases you or rasps your nerves. 

Help us make the theatre better, and help us 
make it the most acceptable amusement place in 
America. The Movies have been with us long 
enough to be cultivated. The weeds must be pulled 
out and the good grain encouraged. You are the 
one to be a missionary for better picture theatres, 
and you may begin by dissecting your own — the 
one most convenient to you. If that is not worth 
while, you must journey to the next and the next 
— and we contend that it is just as easy to 
have every theatre worthy as it is to have a few. 
Addess your letters: Tradelast Editor, Movie 

Pictorial, Hartford Bldg., Chicago, 111. 



A FASHION Show unending — the new 
criterion of style — with “living 
models” who entertain us on the 
screen, and among whom are sev- 
eral of your stature and your type! 
You see what no show window could 
disclose, and what no models could bring 
out: the styles in oction. No studied poses 
no careful movements lest a fold be mis- 
placed — but the gowns you would look well 
in, shown as they must be seen — in actual 

Have you realized this angle of the mov- 
ing picture — this opportunity to employ it 
as one of the guides in modeling your ward- 
robe? And its service can be used with ex- 
pertness too. 

Study the actresses who have figures sim- 
ilar to your own; do not worry how you 
might look in a dress or coat that has been 
fitted to a different type of woman. And 
remember that the actress who is most 
nearly of your type will display innumer- 
able gowns, and will help you decide. This 
is doubly true, because not only does your 
type display her costumes in action, but she 
is abreast of the most recent styles — and is 
generally setting the styles. 

If you were tall and Gibsonesque, you 
would not copy Miss Pickford or Miss Clark 
— but rather a type more nearly correspond- 
ing to your own. Besides, by inquiring of 
this Department, you may learn the texture, 
the materials and the manner of designing, 
and if you wish, the complexion — the 
natural coloring — of the artist herself. The 
actresses of the films select with great care, 
because the costume is a most essential 
part of their art; it is a demand on their 
professional skill. They understand how 
to dress — and they are faithful students of 
harmony of colors. Although you see naught 

Dark blue ser£e — Nor- 
folk — lar£e patch pockets 
on lacket with flap— small 
pocket on belt. Skirt has 
pockets on either side with 
four buttons. Hat Is a three 
cornered Tam of black vel- 
vet and straw. White fox 
neck piece. 

^ifLn 3W 

of Essanay 

If you see upon the screen, a dress, suit, 
hat or garment worn by a film favorite, that 
appeals to you especially, and you believe 
that the actress wearing the costume, re- 
sembles yourself in figure and coloring, 
write to me asking for a detailed descrip- 
tion of the article of apparel. Be sure to 
furnish me with the name of the actress 
and the play — and if possible, the scene in 
which the garment was worn — for these 
actresses often wear many outfits in a sin- 
gle play. 

At the time of replying, we will give you, 
if you wish, that actress’ height, weight, 
and coloring (hair, eyes and skin). 

Remember this department is open to 
you — it is your department. We want you 
to feel it is your information bureau — want 
you to write at any time on this subject. 
Here is a great field of study for you as 
regards your wardrobe, an arena where ex- 
perts in dress and mode are ever passing 
before you. 

And you know that they do not go about 
this part of their preparation for their por- 
trayal in a haphazard manner, but employ 
the same thought and care in the selection 
of their wearing apparel as in their make- 
up. All this you can command through the 
films and turn to your advantage. Secure 
your mental impression of any garment you 
admire from the screen and obtain the de- 
tails through this department — that is the 
purpose of it and the more inquiries we re- 
ceive from those really interested in wear- 
ing apparel seen on the screen, the more 
we will be encouraged. 

All you need do is to write your letter, giv- 
ing the information required, as stated above, 
and to insure a personal reply, enclose a self- 
addressed stamped envelope. Be sure to 

English tweed mater- 
ial. Belted Norfolk lacket 
with patch pockets and 
box pleats. Skirt buttons 
on side and has two side 
pleats. Pose color felt hat — 
yellow fox fur and swa£- 
aer stick. 

9lcff Guu, 

of Essanay 

but effects in light 
and shadow, these 
dresses are of vari- 
ous colors, and the 
film studio is a display 
of rich tints and most 
excellent style. 

The Ladies Dainty 
of the Screen are of 
all height s — all 
weights — b londes, 
brunettes, and be- 
twixt and between. To 
understand style, you 
should know these 
other characteristics, 
and Movie Pictorial 
will give you these 
details henceforth — 
the statures and na- 
tural colorings of 
these actresses. Then 
you may know what 
will suit you best — 
and in copying these 
gowns, you have the 
privilege of selecting 
your own materials, 
which you may do 
easily when you know 
the details. 

Think this over ; 
appreciate its value 
to you; do not hesi- 
tate to ask for the in- 
formation you want. 
With these points in 
view, send in your 

* * * * 

Pink taffeta and em- 
broidered net, with upper 
part of skirt net and lower 
of taffeta. Net sleeves and 
waist, with taffeta belt and 
taffeta coat effect In the 
back. Pink silk hat stitch- 
ed with white and faced 
with white horsehair braid. 

VRnt(-> Stone I V 

one home 

of Essanay 










W HAT errors do you notice on 
the screen? 

The producers of pictures 
have their own troubles in 
keeping close account of details. And 
yet we attend picture plays for enter- 
tainment and only as the details are 
perfect is our entertainment perfect. 

In the strange adventures of 
“Elaine,” we personally noticed Miss 
Pearl White place a revolver in the 
left-hand pocket of her coat. A few 
moments later, when she drew her 
revolver, she brought it out of her 
right hand pocket. This is not an 
uncommon error. Inasmuch as the 
two different scenes were enacted at 
different times, Miss White simply 
forgot where she had placed the re- 

Let us see what our readers have 
discovered during the past month. 
Also, remember that a prize of $5.00 
is paid to the person who writes what 
we consider the best “realism” let- 

Mr. A. M. Seibert of Pittsburgh, 
writes and finds complaint about drag- 
ging in the old time actresses for 
juvenile leads, such as Lillian Russell 
in “Wildfire.” Mr. Seibert says: 
“The human eye can not be deceived 
in reading the ‘Seven Ages of Man.' 
And whilst we all admire the gor- 
geous Autumn season, we all look up 
to the fresh, young and beautiful 
green of Springtime.” Unfortunately 
we can not call this a “realism,” al- 
though it is a very excellent criticism. 

The Stake and the Mistake 

Toledo, Ohio. 

In “The Stake” (Universal) Flo 
knocks Bob’s hat off. The hat falls to 
the ground. In the next picture it is 
on his shoulder. Did he have a spring 
or a rubber band on it? Yours truly, 
(Signed) William A. Moll, Jr. 
No, William, it was simply one of 
these trick kelleys that the funny 
artists tell about. 

Anent a Floater 

New Orleans, La. 

In “Should a Mother Tell,” the corpse 
of one of the villains is shown floating 
in the water face up. A male corpse 
only floats face down. It is only the 
female who floats face up. In this re- 
gard, then, the picture is glaringly 
unreal. Respectfully, 

(Signed) Welcome Horter. 

This is a new one on us. But if it 
is true, it may suggest the eventual 
distinctions of Fate between the male 
and the female. 

Some More Inconsistencies 

Middletown, N. Y. 

In “The Bondwoman,” the heroine 
starts from her beautiful apartments 
to mail some manuscripts. She stops 
to put on a big raglan coat, and then 
runs a block to the letter-box, evi- 
dently forgetting that she wears a 
boudoir cap. To me, an artistic picture 
was spoiled by the combination of a 
heavy overcoat and a lace house cap. 

In a film I was playing for, a hus- 
band and wife were about to be united 
after a separation of years, at the bed- 
side of their only son. The son had 
been rescued from the waves and 
brought along the coast by the men 
who always appear so mysteriously in 
deserted places. As the stretcher with 
its burden was being carried into the 
mother’s cottage, the son, supposed 
to be dead, or at least unconscious — 
laughed! We all forgive him, how- 
ever, because he had played here in 
stock and was a jolly good fellow. 

(Signed) Anna Gumaer Berg. 
Perhaps we are supposed to over- 
look inconsistencies of this nature 
because of the theory that the dead 
deserve respect. 

Not True to Fly - Time 

Montgomery, Ala. 

In the Civil War picture “Dan,” the 
front door of the old home is shown 
with a screen door. In ’61, screen 
doors were not known. It looked 
strange to see actors in costumes of 
that period opening and closing a 
screen door. In the same picture, when 
the uncle came to see them, Dan, the 

A Department for the Discussion of Films Possessing or Lacking Realism 

Conducted by Our Readers 

Your help toward the accomplishment aimed at by this department 
is requested. Send in your criticisms. Do not hesitate- Join your 
efforts with ours. A prize of $5.00 is given each month to the con- 
tributor of the criticism deemed most worthy, be it either for or against 
the film. Address all communications to the Realism editor. 

negro, met him on the porch and shook 
hands with him and slapped him on 
the back. Negroes would never have 
done any such thing. 

In one war story, the name of which 
I have forgotten, in the most thrilling 
scene, the electric piano started to 
play “Tipperary.” 

I wish that young actresses would 
take the part of young ladies in pic- 
tures. It is terrible to see old actresses 
attempting to do juvenile sweetheart 
scenes. Yours truly, 

(Signed) Miss M. E. Fitzpatrick. 
These Civil War pictures, Miss Fitz- 
patrick, are written largely by North- 
erners who wouldn’t know a bald 
eagle from a buzzard. Maybe it was 
the same brand of mistakes that 
brought on the Civil War. We don’t 
see any of these inconsistencies in 
“The Birth of a Nation.” Both Mr. 
Griffith, the producer, and Mr. Walt- 
hall, the lead, are Southerners. 

A Few Helpful “Dongs'* 

Little Rock, Ark. 

Don’t allow a lady to wear the same 
dress five years later — or fail to move 
the clock up to suit the hour — or use 
waning stars as coquettish young girls 
— or put on more make-up than the 
part demands — or spoil an excellent 
effect by using an opposite door for 
exit from the one entered — or move too 
quickly and destroy the idea of natural- 
ness — or turn on the lights when the 
house is full of sunshine — or censor a 
beautiful masterpiece like “The Hypo- 
crites” when C. C. can play to full 
houses, or a few others of that type, 
that are looked at in askance. Re- 
member, don’t do these many needless 

(Signed) Mrs. S. Douglas Knox. 

The Variable Accomplishments 
of Tess 

Los Angeles, Cal. 

In “Tess of the Storm Country,” Tess’ 
environments, her general appearance 
and the slang expressions she uses, 
would indicate inability to read or 
write. After she has stolen a Bible 
from the church, she is shown several 
times reading it, and several times 
she quotes (the gist of) verses. But, 
when the Deacon sends her a note of 
apology, etc., she can not read it but 
asks another to do so. Perhaps she 
was inspired while attempting to read 
the Bible. Sincerely, 

(Signed) J. E. Wright. 

Jevne*s Bread in *61 

Los Angeles, Cal. 

I recently saw “The Old Chair.” 
The play was supposed to have been 
taken during the war between the 
North and South. It was very good, 
but I wonder if people ate Jevne’s 
bread in those times. In one of the 
scenes taken in front of the village 
store, where the men usually gath- 
ered to talk over matters, a messenger 
rode up crying that war had been de- 
clared. The first thing that attracted 
the attention of the audience was the 
fact that there was a large Jevne 
bread box standing in front of the 

I noticed that the producer had 
everything in keeping with the time, 
for instance, mode of living, style of 
dress, construction of house, carriages 
and other details, but why not be par- 
ticular about small things such as the 
bread box, as well as the large things. 

Yours truly, K. G. 
Here, indeed, is an incongruity! 
And yet we have eaten some of 
Jevne’s bread that we might easily 
have believed was baked back in 

Those Pesky Shootin* Irons Again! 

Birmingham, Ala. 

Moving picture producers have 
strange ideas of the quality of Ameri- 
can humor. They seem to think it 
worthy of great hilarity to see one 
man shoot at another twenty-five or 
thirty times without re-loading bis 
pistol — while the effect on the other 
is sufficient to make him jump as if 
struck by every shot, although not 
hard enough to stop him from run- 
ning. They also consider it funny to 
see two men beat each other into a 
state of apparent insensibility — and, 
yet, here we are about the only neutral 

Somebody among the nations of the 
world. Yours truly, 

(Signed) Lois Lloyd. 
Your ideas are quite to our own 
heart, Miss Lloyd. Those pesky 
shootin’ irons are one of the obses- 
sions of the screen. The idea of 
comedy seems to be to soak some 
one over the head with a sledge. Lo^k 
for “Chimmie Fadden” and you will 
find some humor that does not require 

Time , Husbands and New Born Babies 

New York, N. Y. 

In “The Inner Brute,” an Essanay 
release, the mother is supposed to be 
frightened by a lion the night before 
the birth of her child, and is saved by 
her husband. Yet the leader says “A 
Month Later,” and shows the news 
being brought to the husband. Where 
had he been? The new-born baby in 
the picture looked to be about six 
months old. Can’t the Essanay get 
any younger ones? 

Also, will the time ever come when 
the screen moonshiner will cease to 
exist? And was, is there, or will 
there ever be a moonshiner’s daughter 
that does not faJl in love with the 
revenue officer? — 

In a Gold Seal, one of the characters 
carefully turns his cap around back- 
wards, and when he gets into the 
yacht it is on straight, and when he 
comes out it is on backwards again. 

In “The Goddess,” Episode 12, a 
close-up of Miss Jensen showed her in 
a striped shirt waist and in the other 
picture the waist was white. In the 
13th Episode, Freddie put the Pro- 
fessor’s glasses on, and the professor 
had no hat on. When the glasses 
were put on, there was a hat on the 
professor’s head. He took them back 
and the hat vanished. 

Perhaps, after all, people don’t want 
things too realistic. Grace Cunard 
and Francis Ford in “The Broken 
Coin,” did natural things in the most 
natural way, and yet people laughed. 


(Signed) Jessie F. Edgerly. 
Perhaps you are right, Miss Edger- 
ly. In the halcyon days of wrestling, 
when the contestants fought fairly 
the audience hooted them. When 
they “faked,” every one went away 
satisfied. Sometimes a thrill will 
cover, up. an inconsistency. 

Screen Police Systems 

Portland, Ore. 

Miss Lenore Ulrich has made a host 
of friends by her wonderful protrayal 
of Kilmeny in the play of that name. 
However, it doesn't seem possible that 
the author of the play should display 
such ignorance of the wonderful de- 
tective systems and police systems 
that we have today. 

I would imagine that the scenes of 
this play were laid in England and 
that it represented the nobility of 
modern days. When Kilmeny is kid- 
naped by the gypsy band, after the 
burning of her father’s barn, it seems 
absurd to think that, knowing of the 
trouble that had been caused when he 
took the child away from the gypsies 
at first, Kilmeny’s father would not 
even attempt to rescue the child or 
even notify the police or a detective 
agency regarding the case. It is too 
absurd to think of. 

Certainly all the countries of today 
have systems so that in almost every 
case they can detect whether the kid- 
napers are strangers in the vicinity or 
not, and with a gypsy band as fero- 
cious as they were portrayed in Kil- 
meny, does it seem reasonable to be- 
lieve that a father would give up his 
child so readily? Had the gypsies 
escaped by stealth and not been found 
again, it would have been different, 
but Kilmeny’s father visited the camp 
while they were moving away. The 
play certainly does not speak well for 
our lawmakers of todav. 

(Signed) H. B. Bassett. 
We often see on the screen such 
inconsistencies as arrests for felony 
without warrants, and other things 
that are not in harmony with the 
statutes. The scenario writers too 
often consider the art of writing as 
greater than the art of observation. 

A Few on ** Marse Covington ** 

Fairfield, Ala. 

In “Marse Covington,” one would 
think that every Virginian were ac- 
customed to drinking nothing but mint 
juleps. I watched the play twice be- 
fore I would believe that the house- 
keeper wore the same dress after the 
war that she had on before the war, 
although a period of four years had 
passed. She even had on the same cap 
and collar. The old negro, Dan, would 
sometimes call Virginia by its right 
name (through the use of the sub- 
title) and sometimes by the negro pro- 
nunciation “Virginny.” In the office 
of the lawyer, when the deed was 
being given back to Marse Covington, 
the stenographer wrote continuously 
for three minutes on one line. 

In a picture playhouse that I recent- 
ly visited, a graphophone furnished 
the music, and during the saddest part 
of “Tess of Storm Country,” the in- 
fernal machine was screeching out 
“It’s a Long, Long Way to Tipperary.” 
(Signed) Margaret Suppler. 

** Greater Love Hath No Man** 

New Orleans, La. 

Your collection of criticisms would 
be incomplete without the addition of 
“Greater Love Hath No Man,” a Metro 
release. The producer is to be con- 
gratulated in incorporating in a single 
film every possible violation of the 
laws of realism and probability. 

We start with the Utopian peniten- 
tiary, where the main workroom of the 
convicts is located over an elaborate 
system of sqwers and tunnels sepa- 
rated merely by a thin wooden floor. 
After the convicts had sawed their way 
through this thin wooden floor, in- 
stead of gaining their freedom they 
climbed back to their work and con- 
finement. One convict splashed about 
in knee-deep water in the tunnel, 
climbed back to join his comrades, and 
behold, his clothes were dry! The lei- 
surely manner in which the hero 
knocks down, drags out and throws 
above his head the rebellious convicts 
would bring out the green-eyed mon- 
ster in John L. or Jess Willard. 

In the fire scene, the heroine, blinded 
by the smoke, rushes into the burning 
house only to pose, pick up a bird-cage 
from one table and set it on another, 
and pose again, while she waits for 
the property man to blow more deadly 
smoke in her direction. Finallv, decid- 
ing that the smoke market is done, she 
lies down on the floor in a comfortable 
position to await the coming of her 

When the convict-hero and her 
father, the warden, are told that she 
is in the burning building, do they 
rush madly to her rescue? Not at all. 
They made faces in the camera. Even 
after the hero has gone inside the flam- 
ing house he does considerable more 
posing. Then, throwing the half-con- 
scious heroine over his shoulder, he 
carries her along a dizzy ledge that 
must be all of ten or twelve feet above 
the ground. No one attempts to move 
the ladder toward the imperiled stars, 
although a gaping mob is looking on. 
The heroine is heavy and the hero is 
fat and slow. 

When the hero escapes from prison 
and is pursued by the guard, he hides 
and jumps upon the unsuspecting 
guard, strikes at him, missing him by 
at least three feet. But the guard is 
accommodating and drops senseless. 

Other inconsistencies show a schoon- 
er sailing on a motionless sea. When 
the schooner is destroyed by lightning 
and sinks immediately, the hero is 
found on a raft, the construction of 
which would require hours of labor 
of the entire crew. 

Another scene shows the heroine 
waiting at the bridge. There is a per- 
fect calm settled over the sea and not 
a breath of air stirring. And yet, only 
a few hundred yards away, the hero is 
supposed to be fighting his way sur- 
rounded by a howling tempest. 

When taken to the death-bed of his 
mother, the convict is shown in his 
prison garb, notwithstanding the fact 
that when convicts are taken outside 
for any such purpose, they are always 
given ordinary clothing to wear. 
When the guilty son confesses his 
crime, he darts away down the front 
steps, then stops, poses, lies down awk- 
wardly, and rolls the balance of the 
distance to his death. Can you beat 
it? Sincerely yours, 

E. W. W. 

We believe that E. W. W. merits 
the $5 prize. He has uncovered a vast 
number of inconsistencies, and, in- 
deed, pointed out others that we did 
not incorporate in the letter, because 
we still had some pity in our hearts 
for “Greater Love Hath No Man.” 



The Spoken Word 

( Continued from page 7) 

Jack’s heart stood still. In reply 
to the sergeant’s questioning he said 
only that he had seen Helen last at 
five-thirty when she had left the 
office and, as he supposed, gone home. 
Could the articles found in the park 
be sent to him? 

The sergeant demurred at first but 
upon his promise to produceRhem if 
necessary he consented to send an 
officer down with them. Haverly 
hung up the receiver slowly. Burton 
Park! Why, it was five miles from 
the Sentinel office! But perhaps 
Helen lived out that way! He un- 
locked the safe and took out the ad- 
dress book, then ran his finger down 
the alphabetical list. 

Holden, Helen, 115 Hamilton Court. 
Telephone East 1806. 

Clear on the other side of town! 
He rang up the number only to learn 
from the anxious landlady that Helen 
had not been home the night before. 
Sick at heart he tossed the receiver 
back onto the hook and pondered 
what to do next. As he sat thus the 
officer entered and a moment later 
Haverly held in his hand the little 
silver bag. When the man had gone 
he closed and locked the door, al- 
though, so far as he knew there was 
not a soul in the great empty build- 
ing except himself. 

He opened the bag and laid the 
contents out one at a time on the 
desk. There was a dainty handker- 
chief with Helen embroidered across 
one corner; the inevitable powder 
puff; a small coin purse containing 
a dollar and a half in change; some 
cards bearing her name and down in 
one corner the words Representing 
the Sentinel; last of all, a little white 
package which bore his own name. 
He laid the bag down by the other 
things and slowly unwrapped it. He 
caught his breath when the beautiful 
thing lay in his hand. Why — she 
must have made it herself! That 
was his face! Hers! — as it had al- 
ways smiled up at him until — until 
last night ! The silver of which it 
was made was as soft as satin, the 
two faces perfectly wrought. The little 
trifle felt suddenly warm, human, to 
his touch. He lifted it to his lips. 
It was evident that into the making 
of it she had put the whole of her 

love for him, and he . He had 

driven her out into the night, per- 
haps to death — or worse! 

The littie silver box went into his 
pocket. He buttoned his coat tightly 
over it. The other things he replaced 
in the bag, put it into a small drawer, 
locked it and put the key in his pock- 
et. Then he called the sergeant 
again, urging him to make every ef- 
fort to learn the fate of Helen and 
promising his own assistance, stipu- 
lating, however, that there should be 
no publicity given the affair. Then 
he closed the office and went home. 

Is there anywhere on earth a mask 
so terrible as that which we are 
forced to wear ourselves? The next 
six months were filled with days 
which tried Jack’s soul. Streaks of 
gray crept into his dark hair, hut his 
face revealed nothing of the grief 
which was torturing him from within. 
If only he had not spoken! If only he 
could tell her he was sorry — make it 
right! Vain regrets. Helen had 
dropped out of sight. The police and 
the private detective engaged by him- 
self had been unable to get the slight- 
est clue of her. Haverly himself had 
used every moment of his spare time 
"sleuthing” as in the old days when 
he had been a “cub” on the paper. 
Once he had gotten as far as the door 
of St. Luke’s only to learn from the 
register that no one of that name had 
been either admitted or discharged. 
Helen’s condition when she was taken 
there was such as to preclude the pos- 
sibility of getting her name. She was 
just “the patient in 342.” Weeks 
after, when it was possible for the 
hospital authorities to learn it she 

had decided not to reveal her identity. 
So she went on the record as Mary 

And so the days slipped into weeks 
and the weeks into months. Winter 
passed and the soft air of the 
spring was blowing in at the open 
windows. But the good doctor’s 
heart was troubled. So far as Helen’s 
disease was concerned he had won 
the battle. Every vestige of it had 
disappeared. But Helen herself did 
not get well, and one morning as he 
was making his rounds he came upon 
her sitting in a corner of the sun 
parlor looking out with the face of a 
Madonna toward the distant hills. 
Twenty-five years as a physician had 
taught him much that is not writ in 
books. He went on the principle 
that there is always a story behind 
the circumstance. The thing to do 
was to get the story, and in this he 
was an adept. He stood for a mo- 
ment and watched her silently. Then 
he Went over and sat down beside 

' “Little woman,” he said kindly, 
“tell me why you don’t get well.” 

“Why, doctor ” she stammered, 

S‘I thought I was getting well.” 

"Your physical illness was cured 
long ago,” he answered. “It is your 
soul that is sick, my child. Come. 
Won’t you tell me all about it?” 

The quick tears sprang into her 
eyes. How kind he had been! He 
knew absolutely nothing about her 
except that she had no money to pay. 
One day when she had tried to speak 
of it he had stopped her instantly, 
telling her that a victory such as 
he had won in her case was pay 
enough for any man and adding 
whimsically that he would take it 
out on some rich fellow who had the 
price! He was waiting for her to 
speak, watching her closely. So 
presently she said simply. 

“I loved a man, and he — was — 

“I thought so. What else?” 

“That is all.” 

“Are you sure? You think it is 
because he was cruel that you can’t 
get well?” 

She nodded. 

He took the slender, almost trans- 
parent hand between his own and 
said softly, “You are mistaken, my 
child. Your diagnosis is wrong. You 
do not get well because you have not 
forgiven him. You love him still.” 
She did not answer but the doctor 
knew by the look which came into 
her eyes that he was right. So he 
went on. 

“Have you ever stopped to think 
that if he has done you a wrong his 
suffering must be greater than yours? 
I am a man myself. I know that the 
lenses through which a man views 
life do not give him the same vision 
as that seen by a woman. The very 
best of us make mistakes, my child, 
and when we do — why, that’s just 
when we need you most. We men 
would have a sorry time of it in this 
old world if the dear women who 
love us were not divinely forgiving. 
Stop nursing your wound, little wom- 
an, and you will find that it will heal 
of its own accord. And now, I want 
to say something more. You have 
been here too long. You are what 
we call "hospital tired.” Don’t think 
for a moment that I am going to lose 
sight of you or lose interest in you. 
I’m not. But I am going to take you 
home tomorrow, and before you go I 
want you to make me a promise, will 

“What is it, doctor?” 

“It will not be easy — the thing I 
want you to promise. But — when he 

comes to you asking pardon ” 

“He will not come!” she cried pas- 

“He will. And when he does — for- 
give him royally, as a woman alone 
knows how to do. Not for his sake. 
For yours. Will you promise?” 

“I promise.” 


Another half year went by. To all 
outward appearances Haverly was the 

same as ever, a prince of good fellows 
to his associates, a devoted son to 
his mother. But the latter knew that 
inwardly he was changed and not 
even she herself seemed able to pen- 
etrate that calm exterior and get 
close to the heart of the man. Often 
at night after all the others had left 
he lingered, in order that unobserved, 
he might unlock the drawer in his 
desk and touch the contents of the 
little silver bag. Night after night 
he walked the thirty blocks between 
the office and his home for no reason 
except that he knew that physical 
weariness would be followed by sleep. 
Nothing had disappeared from the 
office since Helen went away, and 
there could be no stronger proof 
of his love than that, believing her 
guilty, he loved her still. 

He saw the end of the year ap- 
proach with foreboding. He dreaded 
the return of Christmas Eve and the 
memories it would bring. He looked 
feverishly about him for some- 
thing on which he could put his mind 
and finally an episode took place 
which gave him the desired oppor- 
tunity. Jack liked a good fight. 
Chance favored him. 

For several months past un- 
authorized agents of the labor unions 
had been going about the city com- 
pelling contractors and builders to 
pay them large sums of money to pre- 
vent their calling a strike. As the 
latter could ill afford to have their 
building held up many of them paid. 
Those who refused were harassed 
until financial failure stared them in 
the face. At last a well-known con- 
• tractor who refused to be buncoed 
was killed, and when the real facts in 
connection with his death came out 
Haverly elected to expose the fraud- 
ulent agents. He attacked them bold- 
ly through the columns of the Sen- 
tinel. The owners of the paper re- 
monstrated with him. The men on 
the staff warned him. He paid no 
attention. Protests from the unions, 
the rank and file of which did not 
understand the real state of affairs, 
threats from the men accused, scur- 
rilous, anonymous letters began to 
flood the office. Haverly read every 
one of them and filed them away. He 
was not to be bluffed. He hammered 
away at them until, at last, the unions 
themselves saw a great light. They 
understood what the bogus agents 
were doing for them. They suddenly 
“came across.” The men were ex- 
pelled from their unions and the fight 
was won. 

While the excitement was at its 
height, however, a thing of equal im- 
portance, to Haverly at least, devel- 
oped. Mathews was caught red- 
handed in his dirty work, and had re- 
ceived his just deserts. It was Thorn- 
ton who finally ran him to cover — 
Thornton, who although the thefts 
had stopped with Helen’s disappear- 
ance, had never ceased to insist that 
“there must be some mistake.” He 
almost feared to tell Haverly of his 
discovery of Mathews’ guilt and when 
he did the look in his eyes had caused 
him to wring his friend’s hand silent- 
ly and turn quickly away. And so 
the days went on, and it was Christ- 
mas Eve again. 

True to his word the doctor had not 
forgotten Helen. He went to see her 
every now and then and realizing her 
loneliness occasionally sent her a 
new book or a ticket to the theater 
or concert. She looked as fragile as 
a piece of egg-shell china, yet she 
seemed to be well enough. She put 
in her spare time writing stories to 
which, however, she signed a name 
not her own, and to making pretty 
trifles in her little shop in the attic. 
On Christmas Eve the doctor sent her 
a ticket for “The Messiah,” and after 
the concert, as she stood in the crowd- 
ed car on her way home she sud- 
denly heard a familiar voice right 
behind her head. It was Mathews. 

She twisted about, a bit till she 
could steal a look at his face. The 
man with whom he talked was a 
low-browed, brutal-looking individual 

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ROSS-GOULD, 414G N. 9th Street 

with a countenance strongly resem- 
bling that of a bull-dog. Scenting 
mischief she backed up just as close 
as she could and suddenly her blood 
ran cold. They were talking about 
Jack! She heard the words “tonight — 
always leaves the office about eleven- 
thirty — the man-hole right back of 
the building — connects with the 
main sewer — wash him clear out to 
sea!” A coarse laugh from the bull- 
dog-faced man followed. 

“Thinks he’ll monkey with the 
unions, does he? Well, we’ll show 

Helen did not wait to hear more. 
There was but one thing to do. 
She was going to do it. Her warning 
might not be kindly received. Never- 
theless she would give it. Haverly 
was in danger of losing his life. It 
was not because it was Jack, she 
argued fiercely with herself. She 
would do the same for anybody. 

She slipped from the car at the 
next corner. As she dropped off of it 
a policeman was just “pulling the 
box” on the corner. She rushed to 
him, told him in as few words as pos- 
sible what she had heard. He prom- 
ised to have a wagon-load of officers 
at the building in five minutes. 
Helen hailed a passing taxi, told the 
man to drive her to the Sentinel 
office at once. When she got out she 
saw by the clock that it was eleven- 
fifteen. She flew to the elevator. 

“Fourth floor!” she said breath- 

The car shot up. She stepped out 
and caught her breath quickly as she 
realized that she was on her old 
stamping ground. In the corner was 
her desk at which she had worked. 
It was closed and locked. She 
wondered who used it now, never sur- 
mising the real truth, that it had 
never been opened since the day she 
went away and that Haverly had the 
key in his pocket. She rushed into 
the outer office. It was empty. Was 
she too late? She knocked on Jack’s 
door and a familiar voice said, “Come 

She stepped inside. Jack sat at 
the desk, the contents of the silver 
bag spread out before him. He looked 
up quickly, then rubbed his hands 
over his eyes to be sure that they 
were not playing him tricks. He 
sprang up with outstretched arms. 

“Oh, Helen! Helen! Have you 
come back to me?” he cried. 

She put up her hands to stop him. 

“Wait!” she said nervously. “You 
must go — at once. They are coming 

to ‘get’ you — the labor men and — and 
— Mathews! They’re waiting till 

eleven-thirty till you leave the office. 
They’ll tie you with ropes, throw you 
in the man-hole to die and be carried 
out to sea. Oh, please, please go — - 
won’t you?” 

In her terror she had gone close 
to him and was pulling nervously at 
his coat. Quietly he took possession 
of the restless hands and looked down 
into the flushed, pleading face. 

“You came to warn me?” he asked 
brokenly. “You — you did this for me 
after — after ” 

“Oh, don’t!” she begged. “Please 

“Listen, dear,” he said gently, “I’m 
not afraid of Mathews, nor of any 
man, nor of any gang of men. I hate 
to run. But because you — came, dear- 
est, and because I love you I will go — 
on one condition.” 

“What is it?” 

"That you go with me and never 
leave me again.” 

Before she had time to reply a, 
noise in the hall startled them. Jack’s 
arms closed about her closely, and as 
they listened a couple of blue-coats 
appeared in the office outside. The 
officer had kept his word. 

“Better take the young lady away, 
sir,” one of them advised. “There 
may be a little gun play around here 

Jack longed to stay and see it 
through, but Helen was trembling 
and urging him to come. Again she 
pulled at his coat. 

“ Please , Jack!” she whispered, and 
at the sound of his name on her lips 
Haverly gave in. What mattered, 
anyway, besides the one great fact 
that she were here? He would never 
lose her again, for since that stormy 
day when his wrath had consumed 
him for the last time, he had learned 
a bitter lesson. He knew that it 
could never master him again. 

Outside the taxi in which Helen 
had come was still standing. Haver- 
ly put her into it, gave the man a 
number and got in beside her. A lit- 
tle later they drew up before a house. 

“Why— where are we?” she asked. 

“At home, girl,” he answered. 

Despite the lateness of the hour 
the mother was still up. She looked 
up in astonishment as the two en- 
tered. Then without a word she took 
Helen in her arms. 

“What a fine Christmas present!” 
she said a moment later as she looked 
up at the tall man beside her. 

He laughed. 

“I was afraid to let her out of my 
sight,” he replied. “She is elusive. 
So I just brought her with me.” Then 
after a moment, “Oh, mother, be good 
to my girl!” 

The mother did not reply, but her 
look was a promise. When she had 
left them to make a place for Helen 
for the night, her son turned swiftly 
and crushed the woman he loved and 
had lost and found again to him, 
whispering against her ear the words 
of love and repentance which for so 
long he had yearned to say. 

“You’ll forgive me, Helen, — won’t 
you ?” 

She remembered the words of the 
doctor and her promise. But for 
some reason she seemed not to need 
a reminder. 

“Yes, dear, of course.” 

“And you won’t be — afraid of me, 
will you, sweetheart? Oh, Helen, 
I couldn’t do it again.” 

“I am sure of it, Jack.” 

He took the small cigarette case 
from his pocket and held it up before 
her. She gave a little cry when she 
saw it. 

“Why, how did you get that?” she 

He told her. 

She took it in her hands and softly 
rubbed it. 

“I had such a good time making 
that,” she murmered. “I — lost it that 
night, and I never thought of seeing 
it again. I’m so glad you have it 
after all. You won’t mind if I keep 
on making things, will you dear? I 
love it.” 

“Mind it? I should say not. Why 
should a man’s wife hide her light 
under a bushel? A woman’s life is 
her own to lead as she pleases, I 
want you to bring out everything 
beautiful that is in you, girl, — to work 
out your own life in your own way. 
What difference does it make to me 
what you’re doing when I’m not with 
you? When I find it possible to be 
at home,” he finished whimsically, 
“why, — I’d like your attention!” 

She laughed, — a merry little laugh 
which brought back the Helen of old. 
Goodness knows how long they would 
have kept it up had not the mother 

‘Don’t you children know that it’s 
— morning?” she chided. 

Jack looked at his watch. One- 

“So it is,” he acquiesced. “Well, — 
this night will never come again, 
mother mine. We can afford to dissi- 
pate a little. But good-night ladies, 
and — Merry Christmas!” 


just what part I was going to take 
in the drama. It would be an im- 
portant part, of course. Was it not 
my third day as a photoplayer? 
There would probably be a scene be- 
tween Miss Mayo and myself. Per- 
chance I might rescue her from in 
front of the locomotive. Miss Mayo 
and Miss Scott did not come into the 
depot but remained in their taxi cab, 
patiently waiting Mr. Calvert’s call. 

And then finally the train came in 
and stopped for some time at the 
station with all the regular passen- 
gers rubbering out of the windows. 
I don’t know when Mr. Ainsworth 
and Miss Scott got off the train, nor 
I didn’t notice just when the camera 
started clicking, but all of a sudden 
I saw the actor and actress step off 
the train and walk as naturally as 
you please up to where Dick Travers 
and Edna Mayo were standing by 
the engine. The bunch didn’t seem 
to say anything to each other — just 
moved their lips, and finally Mr. 
Calvert yells “out” and the camera 
quits clicking. That was all there 
was to it. The train starts on to- 
ward Chicago and then the director 
hurries our bunch of bandits on up 
the railroad tracks. 

It was a strip of sidetrack that Mr. 
Calvert finally picked out, and under 
his orders we bandits began to 

( Continued from page 11) 

blockade the track with a bunch of 
railroad ties that were lying handy. 

After we had a few ties on the 
tracks, the camera started clicking 
and I came to the conclusion that the 
really important part of the film was 
being snapped. We were about to 
wreck “the flyer,” and I vigorously 
tugged away at the ties. All of a 
sudden I felt a crack on my bean 
and I dropped my tie in a hurry. 
The sheriff’s posse had arrived. At 
first I was good and sore, but when 
I realized it was part of a big scene 
and how swell it would look on the 
film I forgave all. 

Our roundup by the posse was 
complete and within half an hour 
we were chugging back to the 

They would have my picture on the 
red and yellow lithographs out in 
front of the "Pastime” and the “Idle 
Hour” and the “Lyric” theaters in a 
few weeks. Girls sitting in the dark 
out in Ottumwa and down in 
Paducah and up in Oshkosh would 
be raving over my manly form and 
soulful eyes. I had not accomplished 
much the day before, true, but as a 
train bandit, Ah! What mattered if 
my head was a bit sore. 

“Well,” I says to Mr. Calvert as we 
turned onto Argyle street toward the 

studio, “I guess I did pretty well 
today, huh?” 

“Yes, things went very well today,” 
replied the director. “I think that 
silhouette scene of the bandits cap- 
tured by the posse is going to look 
very good. You see the way it was 
taken, there will be just the outline 
of ypu fellows against the sky — a 
faint outline that ought to be mighty 

“Silhouette — faint outline?” I 
echoed aghast. “And me garbed up 
like this all day and keeping the 
right facial expression for hours and 
getting hit on the bean. Mr. Cal- 
vert,” I snapped (I didn’t care, I was 
sore and I came right out without 
any quibbling) “Mr. Calvert, I’m 
through with the movies.” 

Back inside the romance factory I 
lifted my hand in waving away 
fashion, when I saw Mr. Babille, the 
hirer of “extras,” coming toward me 
down the aisle between the dressing 

“You can put someone else in my 
place tomorrow,” I calls to him in a 
no-use-to-plead-with-me-tone. “I’m go- 
ing into the world and become just 
the best plumber or the best cigar 
clerk or the best laundry wagon 
driver that it is possible for me to 
become. The actor bug has been 
knocked out of my head.” 



( Continued from page 17) 

mere facade. They were starting for 
the door when a hubbub was raised in 
the hall. There was voluminous blas- 
phemy, and a scuffle was in progress. 

“Naw, I won’t!” a deep bass voice 
was shouting. “No bleedin’ bobby kin 
make me quit cold. 1 ain't no hand at 
argument, but I’m a rotter when it 
comes to me rights!” Then the scuffling 
was continued. Randley hesitated. 
He did not wish to become involved in 
any fisticuffs just now, nor was he 
going to be held as a witness if he 
could help it. If the three would but 
restrain themselves, they could easily 
avoid any unpleasantness. He stepped 
forward to slip the bolt in place, when 
the door was burst open and two men 

rolled into the room. One was an 
officer ; the other, the red-eyed boarder. 

“What’s the row?” Mumford asked 
angrily, but the combatants were in 
no mood to answer. Le Croix sprang 
nimbly over the contestants, and 
Randley and Mumford followed suit. 
This should be as propitious a time as 
any to escape. Little groups of men 
and women were scattered around the 
hall and the stairway, jabbering ex- 
citedly, but the triumverate descended 
the steps three at a time. The lower 
hall was also crowded. Every one 
was wrought up with excitement, the 
cause of which Jack, Billy and Etienne 
had no curiosity to fathom. At the 
moment they were gaining the street, 
a cab drew up the opposite curb, and 

two dainty maids emerged from the 
house of the sinister visage. 

“To the Holland docks,” said one, 
with a show of decision. 

“The Girl!” Randley cried. “The 
Girl in the Pathe! Hurry, Billy, 

But an officer barred the way. Three 
more officers stood nearby in readi- 
ness. The cab was beginning to move 

“What does this mean?” Jack de- 
manded angrily. 

“That you remain in that building 
for three weeks! There’s a smallpox 
patient in there now. You and the 
others are quarantined !” 

(To be concluded.) 


Dear Movie Pictorial Readers: 

I have had a most enjoyable few 
days in sort of circulating among the 
California studios, hob-nobbing and 
chatting and breaking bread with our 
film friends. I wish I could think of 
all the inspirational news I heard, or 
had the space to tell it to you. But 
what I am writing concerns several 
of the persons you and I love on the 

So many things are transpiring at 
Universal City — that magic fairy 
camp up in the green hills. Little 
Edna Maison was so excited about 
her Chicago experiences, when she 
was there with the Smalleys. Many 
exhibitors insisted that she must ap- 
pear in person — and she did — and it 
was very thrilling to Edna, because 
she had never stepped in front the 
screen before in her young life. But 
the cheers of the throngs warmed her 
heart and made her less afraid. 

Guess who had joined the Universal 
forces? No one less than J. P. Mc- 
Gowan, the “Helen Hazards” direc- 
tor of Kalem. He is working on a big 
three reeler that is full of bandits 
and smuggling and ever so many 
thrills. Marie Wolcamp and Frank 
Newburg will be in the cast, too. 
The play will be called “The Yellow 

And what do you suppose about the 
“Broken Coin?” Grace Cunard and 
Francis Ford have been told to in- 
crease the installments from fifteen 
to twenty-five. Grace is writing the 
new scenarios, so she is some very 
busy lady, what with plotting and 
writing and acting. And right in the 
midst of it, Mr. Ford has had a birth- 
day! You should see the diamond 
ring that Miss Cunard presented to 
him — and the Chippendale Cellarette 
his company gave him. Which birth- 
day was it? Tut — hush on that in- 
quisitive stuff. 

Many big Universal things are 
transpiring. Peter B. Kyne has sup- 
plied the next Hobart Henley picture. 
It is “The Deficit,” and that title 
ought to strike home to all of us. 
Mr. Henley is going to use pretty 
nearly his entire wardrobe in it — 
from chaps to tuxedo. “The Tenor” 
has just been completed. 

And Harry Edwards, the L-Ko di- 
rector, has been taking on scandalous- 
ly. He has been shooting flying fish. 
Imagine a haughty director doing 
anything like that! At any rate, he 
is said to have shot one, but he didn’t 
bring it home. This introduces a 
new kind of fish story into the cat- 
alogue of piscatorial lore! 

Frank Keenan and Stella Razeto 
have just completed their first feature 
under Ed. J. Le Saint’s direction. It 
is “The Long Chance,” and you must 
see it. 

I was around Inceville way, too. 
They are all talking about Bessie 
Barriscale’s Los Angeles popularity. 
Never spring that “a prophet is with- 
out honor except,” etc., because the 
Angel City is Bessie Barriscale mad 
— and it is a gay sort of happiness. 

Los Angeles saves some of its mad- 
ness, too, for little Louise Glaum who 
has just completed “The Toast of 
Death” at Woodley’s theater. Louise 
is “a native daughter.” 

Dick Stanton has his dressing room 
overlooking the bay, with the entire 
Inceville panorama spread before 
him. This is inspirational, and if 
you were ever at Inceville, you would 
feel capable of a classic a day under 
the same conditions. 

Charles Giblin is “back home” 
again after directing at the Univer- 
sal, and now he is getting ready for 
Billie Burke’s coming feature. 

You remember Charles Clary as 
Father Kelley in “The Rosary,” and 
also as Lord Strathmore? Well, this 
young man’s splendid talents are find- 
ing new expression in “His Guiding 
Angel,” that calls for a rough western 
character. Mr. Clary is always equal 
to the occasion. 

Over at Lasky’s, they have big 
things under way. Carlyle Blackwell 
and Theodore Roberts are going to 
give you some new happiness in “Mr. 
Grex of Monte Carlo.” It is a stirring 
story, and Mr. Blackwell first con- 
ceived the idea when he was with 
the Favorite Players. But, Mr. Grex 
waited, and he is much better for the 

Maybe you didn’t know that Tom 
Forman of Lasky’s is a scenario 
writer. Well, that’s the way he got 
started. When things were coming 
rather tough for Tom, and he had 
applied for work, the director in- 
formed him that a scenario was the 
thing they wish most — and the next 
morning Tom exchanged one for a 
fat check. Necessity made him an 

Beautiful little Helen Holmes has 
been having some new hazards — and 
you’ll feel sorry for her, too, because 
it was her pluck that was largely re- 
sponsible. Pneumonia caught her, 
but she said her friends, the public, 
must be cared for, and she went to 
the studio — and then the severe at- 
tack came, and now Helen’s mother 
is at the hospital, trying to make her 
little girl forget her delirious ravings 
that are all centered around railway 
wrecks and endless labor. 

Everybody who knows Henry B. 
Walthall is wondering how his Chi- 
cago friends ever induced him to make 
a speech. But he did. It was for 
charity, and that explains it. Henry 
is averse to public speaking, but this 
time he spoke briefly, and what he 
said went home. 

The American studios arc just as 
busy as ever. There is always some- 
thing moving around the American. 
Anna Little has just joined the Santa 
Barbara Company, and drove her car 
over the pass, preferring the motor 
trip to the steam cars. And it is 
likely that Dick La Reno will join 
her. Leastwise, he is on hand. 

Webster Campbell is leaving the 
American, and deserting the “Beauty” 
brand. He says he is done with com- 

edy, but his friends are sorry indeed 
to see him go. 

You should see Harold Lockwood 
in his new King-Eight, clad in white 
flannels, and making all the girls 
wish he would be more sociable, and 
take a partner on his trip. But — 
Harold does very well by his lonely, 

Henry Otto is back on the job. For 
a time Henry had no end of physical 
ills, but he pinned his faith to elec- 
tricity, and whether it was the elec- 
trical treatment or the faith, he has 
his company together — and it is cer- 
tainly a worthy company. In it are 
Winnifred Greenwood, Eddie Coxen 
and George Field. 

William D. Taylor, producer of 
“The Diamond From the Sky,” is ad- 
mittedly one of the best paid direc- 
tors in America. But why shouldn’t 
he be? He merits all of it. 

Look for little May Allison in “The 
Man in the Sombrero,” a forthcoming 
American two-reeler. It is comedy- 
drama, and the plot turns on the pic- 
torial advertising of a hat. Incident- 
ally, Miss Allison is in love with the 
Santa Barbara bungalow, and with 
Santa Barbarians generally. 

The Reliance-Majestic, Mr. Griffith’s 
studio, is producing some exception- 
ally good new features. John O’Brien 
is working on “The Scarlet Band,” 
in which John Emerson is starring. 
The cast is up to the customary Grif- 
fith standard. 

Myrtle Stedman, who is playing 
“Lucy,” recently met an actress who 
had played the part in Australia and 
Africa, where the footlights were 
sometimes kerosene lamps, and where 
candles played the part of illumina- 
tion. And this actress praised Miss 
Stedman’s interpretation, too. 

Anne Shaefer, the Vitagraph idol, 
is always doing something kind and 
good — ever aiding charity or some 
other worthy cause. Her disposition 
is on a par with her acting. She 
stars in both directions. 

Here’s a Vitagraph record: Rol- 

lin Sturgeon, producer, a camera man 
and George Holt, arrived at Mojave, 
on the edge of the desert one night at 
11:00, arose the next morning at 
4:00, rode fifteen miles into the 
desert, took numerous pictures, got 
silhouette effects at sundown, arrived 
home half ill. Mr. Sturgeon started 
for Santa Monica in the early even- 
ing, drove 140 miles, arrived at 3:30, 
bathed, ate and was on the job again 
in the morning. 

Maybe you would never think that 
Pauline Bush was a delicate girl. 
But she was. It took lots of out-door 
life and careful living and strong de- 
termination, but Pauline came out 
winner; she conquered her ills. And 
today she is one of the most lovable 
stars of the screen. 

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Margery Moore’s 



Nature’s Beauty Doctor — the Mind 

I am convinced that many women have remained beautiful well into late 
life, by the force of their determination. They refused to grow old. 

Contrast this, good sisters, with the fretful, fuming habit of thought that 
brings the gray ash of decline into the lives of many women who should 
still be enjoying the heyday of their youth. 

Mind is the cunning magician that works from within, that molds and 
fashions and controls what ofttimes the most cleverly devised cosmetics can 
never reach. For beauty must begin within, and radiate outward — or it is 
not beauty, but, at best, merely the semblance of beauty. 

Milady has within herself the power of prolonged youth — the well-spring 
of continued loveliness — if she but will use what is within her grasp. The 
Mind is the thing— the molder of thought and of body, which should be but 
an expression of thought. 

To long for beauty is one thing, but to command it is quite another, 
and the command is of the mind, while the longing may be but a shadow 
that is fleeting in its passage before the mental screen. 

The beauty doctor may help — may bring to your service many things 
that will work hand-in-hand with nature — but no one can give you a tenth as 
much as you may insure yourself. 

Think beauty— and youthfulness— and attractiveness. Make it part of 
your cult. Hold it before yourself day after day — until you have finally 
come to reflect this thought— and your features are aglow with the beauty 
of your mind. 

You say it is impossible? It is as you will. Impossibility is a barrier 
that we construct to meet our willing decline. So long as we believe that 
there are experts who can bring us back from the cold evening of unloveli- 
ness, we must accept what they can do for us. But if we believe that-we have 
within us the basic force of beauty — if we believe that our minds shaped 
us in a finer mold in the beginning— why should we not make the demand 
of beauty one of our most persistent processes of thought? 

You — every woman — longs for the mystic power to stay the progress of 
the years. Time you can not hold, but beauty you may prolong, provided the 
while you do not place upon your body undue taxation through unhealthful 
methods of living. 

W ithin your mind there is the dictator that governs your body, and if 
this power is sufficient to control your corporeal operations why should it 
not aid you in the attainment and the prolongation of genuine feminine 
loveliness? Try it — now and continuously — and watch results' 

Answers to Correspondents 

S. M. 

Your letter is very interesting and 
I don’t blame you to want to rid your- 
self of blackheads. They are very 
unsightly and can be eliminated if 
one is persistent. In the first place 
you must cleanse the skin thoroughly 
each night. First wash the face with 
tepid water and a pure Castile soap. 
Rinse thoroughly in clear water and 
dry. Then apply a good cleansing 
cream and allow to remain on a few 
minutes. Wipe off with a soft cloth 
and apply Acne Cream freely. Allow 
the Acne Cream to remain on all 
night. Repeat the cleansing process 
in the morning. Wipe off and apply 
a pure powder. If you will send me a 
self-addressed stamped envelope I 
will advise you what creams and pow- 
der to use as it is very essential that 
these preparations be absolutely pure. 

J. B. 

No! A thousand times no! Never 

take drugs to reduce your flesh. Stop 
eating all fatty foods and sweets. 
Take exercise in the open air and 
practice deep breathing and your fat 
will leave. 


The lump in your throat may be 
goiter. You should consult a physi- 
cian before attempting to get rid of 
it by massage. If you will send me a 
self addressed stamped envelope I will 
advise you what to use for freckles. I 
can not recommend any particular 
preparations through this column 
but will be glad to advise you pri- 
vately as to creams and powders 
that are pure and harmless. 

A. G. 

See my answer to J. B. in this col- 
umn. Any drug that will reduce your 
flesh is harmful to your entire system 
and I know personally of two or three 
women who died from the effects of 
such drugs. 

If you want advice on beauty topics, write to Margery Moore. She will be 
glad to answer all questions. If a personal answer is desired, stamped and 
self-addressed envelope should be enclosed. Address communications to 
Margery Moore, Care Movie Pictorial, Chicago, 111. 


Rubyiat of a Censor 

Last night my gang and I made merry 

At 4 x. m., I was a hully fright. 

And now I’m on the job again — 
oh, well, 

I’ll single out a feature for a fight. 

You see, I am the Law, I am some 

How I delight to watch the feathers 


And when my liver’s purple, then 

For films I have an awful nasty eye! 

This scene, I understand, required 
much cash, 

It’s tame, I guess, but I must call 
it rash, 

How I love to destroy what others 

Say, watch ’em cut it to a fleeting 

Poor nuts, they slave and moil and 
slave some more, 

And build up crises bravely by the 

And I — the Law — the Film God! 
— Here I smile; 

I love to see 'em squirm and know 
they’re sore! 


Dear Fatta da Arbuck: 

Me’n Guiseppe seen you in da 
swella da feelm — um, so fine! You 
granda da greata da man. Only, 
Fatta, please don’t maka da close-up 
— um, so beeg! It look too much lika 
dadamma da Zep! Yours, 



Oh, see thee no-bul vic-toe-ree! 

The hee-ro conk-ers vice — 

He saves thee lov-lee he-ro-wine, 

And does it in a thrice! 

Where-e’er he go-eth, sin fades out. 
And vir-choo takes thee throne — 
The dev-vil sure-lee takes the count, 
Ex-kuse me while I groan! 

S-s-h — Gish! 

I wish I were a wisher 
What could always get my wish! 

Do you know what I’d wish about? 
About the Sisters Gish! 

I’d wish for Lilyan an’ for Dot — 
So do not answer, "Tish!” 

I wish I were a wisher 
What could wish me near Miss Gish! 

Last night those absinthe frappes had 
a kick, 

My head is splitting — I am really sick, 

But now my vandal spirit may 

This bliss supreme, this amputating 
trick ! 

In all my life, I’ve ne’er evolved a 

Yet in my soul a demon voice does 

Exultant at my power to slash 
and chop 

And spoil a plot and treat art to my 

Some day the Vox-Pop wave will blot 
me out. 

But while I’m here, I’m going to have 
my shout — 

I have my reasons and all that, 
pray note, 

But bless me if I know what I’m 

Where has the Universal anything 
on the rest of us? Who hasn’t 
starred in “The Broken Coin” — huh? 

Anyway, the Goddess got off the 
job before cold weather caught up 
with her! In other words, she fin- 
ished before the clothes of the sea- 

Seven Second Split-Reels 

Reel 1 — Pierpont is on his knees to 
Prunella. She registers dis- 
gust, and pointing to the ap- 
proaching Count Emout, sig- 
nifies that she prefers him 
because of his immaculate 
linen. Calls Pierpont’s atten- 
tion to Count’s gleaming shirt 

Reel 2 — Pierpont registers a big idea. 

Offers Count light for his 
cigarette. Count reaches for 
it. Pierpont drops it, as if 
by accident, upon the Count’s 
shirt bosom. Explosion, gleam 
of red flannel beneath shirt 
bosom. Count flees. 

Reel 3 — Pierpont registers joy. “I 
thought it was celluloid all 
the time!” he exclaims. 


New Albany, Ind. 

Reel 1 — Wedding ceremony. 

Every girl thinks it’s “the diamond 
from the sky” — first time. After that, 
it's a cobble-stone. 

The chief objection to boots that 
lace up the back, and rolled down 
hosiery, is that they break into the 
plot with close-ups. 

Here’s hopin’ it’s an eternal trian- 

I nee 

Griffith Sennett 

Marguerite — S. O. S.H 

Say, Marguerite Clark, we like your 

Your winning ways are cute — 
You don’t know how we love your 

Say Marguerite, it’s a beaut. 

Say, you’re not married, tied for life, 
All harnessed to a mate? 

Oh. say not so, that you’re a wife! 

Alas, are we too late? 

Or, are you single, are you free? 

You see, we’re anxious, true, 

Just pass the word along or we 
Can’t tell our wife — oh, do! 

Reel 2 — Exit music begins. Bride and 
and Groom turn from altar 
and begin to march slowly 
down the aisle. Groom glances 
down to floor and registers 
horror! Bride looks at new 
husband, sees horror, looks 
for cause and finds it. She 
registers hideous amazement. 
Audience follows eyes of un- 
happy couple and fixes gaze 
upon Groom’s feet. Men 
climb upon backs of seats in 
order to see, and women fight 
for good views. They regis- 
ter surprise. Best man saves 
situation. With quick ges- 
tures he stoops and unfastens 
long, white elastic supporter 
that is trailing conspicuously 
over the dark carpet behind 
the groom’s left foot. 


New Albany, Ind. 

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N APOLEON’S name fills more pages in the world’s solemn history than that of any other mortal. 

The advance of his Grand Army into Russia is the turning point of his career, and marks the beginning of his downfall. Today mighty 
armies are again advancing over the same battlefields where Napoleon fought a hundred years ago. The picture shown herewith from 
Ridpath’s History marks but one event out of thousands which are fully described and illustrated in the world-famed publication. 

Ridpath’s History of the World 

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European War 

If you would know 
the underlying causes 
which have led up to 
this great conflict,- 








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VOL. a 





Six Thousand Y ears of History 

DIDPATH’S throws the mantle of personality over the old heroes 
^ of history. Alexander is there; patriot, warrior, statesman, 
diplomat, crowning the glory of Grecian history. Xerxes, from his mountain 
platform, sees Themistocles with three hundred and fifty Greek ships smash his 
Persian fleet of over a thousand sail, and help to mould the language in which 
this paragraph is written. Rome perches Nero upon the greatest throne on 
earth, and so sets up a poor madman’s name to stand for countless centuries as a 
synonym of savage cruelty; Napoleon fights Waterloo again under your very eyes 
and reels before the iron fact that at last the end of his gilded dream has come. 
Bismarck is there, gruff, overbearing, a giant pugilist in the diplomatic ring, 
laughingwith grim disdain at Prance, which says, “You shall not.” Washington 
is there, “four-square to all the winds,” grave, thoughtful, proof against the 
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over the heads of his fellow-countrymen, and on into another century, the most 
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“I am familiar with the merits 
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and cordially commend it to the scholar 
as well as to the people generally.” 

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“Dr. Ridpath’s History of the 
World is a lasting monument to 
the author’s intelligence and indus- 
try. Itis thorough and comprehensive.” 

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“Ridpath’s History is in clear 
and agreeable style, comprehen- 
sive in treatment, readable type and 
admirable illustrations. This set of 
books is a permanent college chair 
of general history in one’s own house.” 

Leslie’s Weekly says: 

•‘Ridpath is the ablest of Ameri- 
can historians. He combines a 
beautiful literary style with won- 
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His great History of the World is a 
library in itself. There is no better set 
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than this notable work.” 

Review of Reviews says: 

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historian. He has singular breadth 
of view and sanity of judgment.” 

Nine Beautiful 
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de e p radi^ 1 a „ ti 

thies, the mutual jealousies 
the commercial rivalries the 
sWw . °Y Past defeats ' the 
vaulting ambitions for world 
Empire, then you should buy 

Ridpath’s History 
of the World ' 

4.000 double 
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2.000 superb^^^j 
illustra- StS'j 

1 tions / v/ 9 


Ridpath’s Graphic Style 

THE reason for Dr. Ridpath’s enviable position 
* as an historian is his wonderfully beautiful /$y N Western 
style, a style no other historian in any generation /y AstociTtfon 
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£-«_ !_•_ i * i «• n the World, containing 

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Saladin and his dark-skinned followers; to 
sail the southern seas with Drake ; to circum- 
navigate the globe with Magellan. He com- 
bines absorbing interest with supreme reli- /iv , 

ability and makes the heroes of history real fS?" Movie Pictorial readers, 
living men and women, and about them ' 1 

he weaves the rise and fall of empires in 
such a fascinating style that history Xq’ 
as absorbingly interesting 


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Scanned from the collection of 

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